Chapter 228: A Timely Request

Ultimately, it was proven that the Thousand Character Classic was used as the substitution key. Each character in the classic corresponded to a common Han character. Gou Er must have carried a special copy of the Thousand Character Classic as his codebook.

“Can you decipher it?”

“Of course,” Zhang Xingpei said confidently, “but there are a few prerequisites. We need someone fluent in Ming-dynasty Chinese, and we need to know the linguistic habits of the time. That would allow us to calculate the frequency of characters in a piece of ciphertext. We also need enough ciphertext for reference. The more we have, the easier it is to cross-reference character frequencies…”

“All the ciphertext we have are these names,” Mu Min said. “I’m afraid it will be very difficult.”

“In that case, it will indeed be very difficult.” Zhang Xingpei’s attitude immediately turned pessimistic. With only names and no coherent sentences, it would be impossible to verify the accuracy of the decryption through context.

“I’ll give it another try,” Zhang Xingpei said, “but I can’t say when I’ll have results.”

“Alright, just get as many names as you can,” Lin Baiguang said with a sigh of resignation. There was no other choice.

However, based on the names they already knew, combined with information inferred from the documents, they had a list of individuals in Lingao and knew what they had conspired to do with the Gou brothers. This information greatly encouraged Lin Baiguang—it added weight to their “Ming Skin, Aussie Heart” plan, set to begin in the autumn.

The so-called “Ming Skin, Aussie Heart” plan was to use the upcoming autumn tax collection as an opportunity to infiltrate the county government. They would purge the lower-level functionaries and replace them with their own people, thereby seizing control of the county’s actual administration and completely marginalizing Wu Mingjin and his staff.

After gaining practical control of the county government, they would use its authority as a legitimate facade to implement the transmigrators’ policies openly. Just as Cao Cao “held the emperor to command the nobles,” the transmigrators would “hold the magistrate to command the county’s people.” The scale was different, but the principle was the same. This was the leadership’s grand strategy.

Their policy of appeasing the county government officials and winning over the local intellectuals was all groundwork for this plan, intended to pacify local resistance and reduce potential opposition.

But these were just carrots; the necessary stick also had to be prepared. Compiling “black materials” was the most effective stick. Not only could it crush people, but it could also ruin their reputations, which was far more effective in the “shame-conscious” society of the past than in the modern era.

The Social Works Department of the Political Security Directorate had been gathering these “black materials” for months. The sources were varied: collected by the social survey teams from the locals, interrogated from prisoners, and of course, anonymous tips—many people hoped the transmigrators would help them settle personal scores.

There were also non-anonymous sources, like the down-and-out Zhang Youfu. He was a master at digging up dirt. Aside from the Gou brothers, his own slate was probably the dirtiest in the county, yet he was an expert informant. During the consultative conference, he had secretly passed several reports on Liu Dalin to Xi Yazhou. These reports were forwarded to the Political Security Directorate. Ran Yao reviewed them; they were almost entirely composed of Liu Dalin’s curses against the transmigrators and accounts of how he had actively plotted to attack them.

He then provided a list of the gentry who had participated in the attack on the transmigrators, along with their statements and actions. Although Ran Yao despised the man, he had to admit Zhang Youfu was a “talent.” Thus, Zhang Youfu became one of the Political Security Directorate’s guest consultants.

After several months, they had collected a substantial amount of black materials. The offenses ranged from major crimes like colluding with bandits and pirates, forcing tenants to their deaths, and raping maids, to minor ones like secretly slaughtering draft oxen, incest, and seducing widows. The variety was impressive. Ran Yao filed everything by name, regardless of its veracity.

Lin Baiguang’s keen interest in Gou Er’s ledger, besides wanting to understand the Gou family’s network in Qiongzhou, was also to add to the weight of these black materials. He couldn’t let the Social Works Department take all the credit.

Lin Baiguang reported the information he had to Ran Yao. The next day, Xiong Buyou received an order: go to the county government immediately and handle a matter.

As usual, Xiong Buyou went to see Wang Zhaomin. To get things done with the magistrate, meeting his advisor was the quickest and most effective way. Officials often found it difficult to say certain things or haggle over details directly; it was more convenient for the advisor to handle it.

Wang Zhaomin could refuse to see others, but “Master Xiong” was a must-see. He quickly ordered the man to be shown in, wondering to himself what the purpose of this sudden visit was, as this month’s stipend had just been delivered.

The matter was not a major one. It was a request for the county government to issue an official document: to declare that the Gou brothers had colluded with pirates and that the “entire estate’s inhabitants perished in a conflict among the sea bandits.” This wasn’t difficult. Although the county government had not issued a formal document, it had already been handled this way internally. Wang Zhaomin thought to himself that these short-hair thieves were starting to understand how things worked, realizing that “if the name is not right, the words will not be proper.” They needed to use the law and authority of the Great Ming to legitimize their actions.

At this thought, he couldn’t help but feel a secret delight. As long as they acknowledged the authority of the Ming government and wanted to use the Lingao county government and Wu Mingjin as a front, there would be room for negotiation. He was not yet aware of the transmigrators’ intention to replace them entirely.

The second request was for the county government to send a formal letter to the Guangdong Provincial Education Commissioner to strip Gou Er’s son, Gou Chengxuan, of his scholar title for the same crimes. At the same time, a warrant for the arrest of the Gou father and son was to be issued in the county.

Wang Zhaomin pondered for a moment. These three things were not difficult. Except for writing to the Provincial Education Commissioner, which was a bit more trouble—and only a bit, as the commissioner would certainly not refuse—the other two tasks were simple. But he had to carefully consider what the Australians were really up to.

He had heard a few days ago that the Australians had suddenly gone to Gou Er’s residence and caused a big commotion. Afterwards, when the yamen runners went to re-seal the doors, they found the well in the backyard had been drained. Had Gou Er hidden something in the well? Why else would the Australians drain it?

Wang Zhaomin couldn’t guess. For them, the transmigrators were practically a one-way mirror: the Australians knew everything that happened in the county, but he was completely in the dark about what they were doing, let alone their specific intentions. Wang Zhaomin was a “scholar-advisor” by trade, with a wide range of knowledge and a deep understanding of officialdom. But the Australians’ system of knowledge and their way of thinking were completely different from his, making it very difficult for him to speculate.

“This is easily done,” Wang Zhaomin agreed readily. He had figured out one thing very clearly: the Australians preferred a direct approach. If they had a request, they would state it plainly and disliked veiled hints. “But a simple proclamation is one thing. For the Provincial Education Commissioner, there are customary ‘embellishments’ required.”

“That’s easy,” Xiong Buyou said, smiling inwardly as Wang Zhaomin immediately brought up money. “How much would be needed?”

“Fifty taels should be enough.” Wang Zhaomin knew this matter had little to do with the commissioner himself; it would be handled by his advisor. Including the customary fees for the clerks below, forty taels of silver would suffice. The remaining ten would be his own benefit.

Of course, these ten taels were not for nothing. Revoking a scholar’s title in the Ming and Qing dynasties was no small matter, more serious than expelling a Party member in modern times. But it wasn’t impossible. The Ming-Qing era could be considered a “procedurally legitimate” society. Regardless of whether it was reasonable or just, the key was that the official paperwork had to be impeccable. A flawlessly written official document, coupled with a sum of silver, would naturally get the job done. Wang Zhaomin felt a bit smug—he had already drafted the document in his head.

“The necessary expenses will be delivered in due course,” Xiong Buyou nodded and made to leave.

“Wait,” Wang Zhaomin called out. “Master Xiong, please stay a moment. I have a matter to inquire about.”

“Yes?” Xiong Buyou stopped, waiting to see what he had to say.

Wang Zhaomin hesitated. He and Wu Mingjin had discussed this matter for a long time. They couldn’t think of any other solution, but it was hard to say if the other party would be interested.

“I hear that your people are reclaiming and farming land in Meitaiyang…”

“Indeed, that is correct,” Xiong Buyou admitted openly.

“Farming in a place like Meitaiyang is extremely difficult,” Wang Zhaomin said. “I presume your people have secret Australian methods, so achieving a bountiful harvest is likely not a difficult matter.”

Xiong Buyou gave a reserved smile. The transmigrators’ agricultural prowess was well-known in Lingao and was one of their most attractive skills.

“…It’s just that there is the matter of the autumn levy for the other farmlands in Meitaiyang. We ask that your people pay the assessed amount accordingly.” Wang Zhaomin finally revealed his true intention.

It dawned on Xiong Buyou. So, it was the autumn grain tax they were after.

They were certainly cunning calculators. Indeed, there are no truly foolish officials, only those who pretend to be. Of course, Wu Mingjin and Wang Zhaomin’s keen interest in the transmigrators’ land was born of desperation. They had originally wanted to avoid dealing with this group of Australians as much as possible, but their current situation left them with no other choice.

Collecting the “imperial grain tax and state levies” was the most critical task for a local government in ancient times, the absolute top priority. Lingao’s tax burden could hardly be called crushing. The summer tax was almost negligible, and the main autumn tax was only 7,686.79 shi. Even by Lingao’s current low productivity standards, this was manageable.

The biggest problem was the additional levies. The “Liao Sarvice” tax for the war in Liaodong had already been increased three times, to a rate of 0.009 taels per mu. Of course, at this point, neither Wu Mingjin nor Wang Zhaomin knew that in the coming year—the third year of the Chongzhen Emperor’s reign—it would be increased again, to 0.012 taels per mu.

This amount was not a problem for wealthier regions with widespread silver circulation, like the Southern Zhili. But for a remote, poor county like Lingao, where a natural economy predominated, it was a significant hardship.