Chapter 265: The Autumn Levy (Part 30)

Zhou Dongtian took the interrogation record. A lot had been said, and the information was quite rich. But on the crucial point—the location of the real autumn levy account books—Umbrella Shop Xiao Hu had not confessed.

“Where are the account books for the villages you were in charge of?” the interrogator roared, his voice hoarse.

“They’re with Eighth Master—no, with Chen Minggang,” Xiao Hu shook his head in pain. “The account books have to be handed over.”

“It seems we need to add a little more spice for you—”

“No, please, I’ve really told you everything,” Xiao Hu struggled futilely in his chair, tears and mucus streaming down his face. He looked like a man whose will had been completely broken by torture. After 24 hours of continuous interrogation, he was on the verge of collapse.

“Alright,” Zhou Dongtian waved his hand, looking at the dejected, sobbing man. “Tell me, how were they handed over?”

“After the business in each village was done, Eighth Master would send someone to collect the account books from us,” Xiao Hu sobbed. “Chen Minggang keeps a very tight watch on the account books. He doesn’t allow us to keep them privately.”

“What about the tax collection registers he gave you?”

“The same. They were collected as soon as a village was finished.”

“They were collected even if there were outstanding payments?”

“Yes, no matter how many people had outstanding payments, they were collected.” Xiao Hu said weakly. “Eighth Master even collected the counterfoil registers for the grain receipts daily.”

“Aren’t the counterfoil registers for the grain receipts in the Household Office?”

“Those are fake registers. Some people who paid their grain tax didn’t get receipts, while some who didn’t pay could get them… The real register is in his own hands.”

“So that’s how it is!” Zhou Dongtian thought. If he could get his hands on that register, he could expose many people in the county who had used fake grain receipts to evade taxes. With this, he could deal with anyone he wanted, and do it legitimately—he would be collecting the Emperor’s grain tax for the Great Ming.

“Quick, tell me! What other double-entry books does he have!”

…

Zhou Dongtian asked many questions repeatedly, some of which he had already confessed to. He used this cross-examination to see if there were any inconsistencies in the details of his confession.

Finally, he concluded that there was no more information to be squeezed out of Xiao Hu. He ordered him to be taken away.

“Should we interrogate Chen Minggang?”

“Not yet. We need to break the spirit of this group first,” Zhou Dongtian shook his head. The “struggle session” was almost ready.

Du Wen participated in all matters related to “struggle,” and this time was no exception. Although she was not on the leadership committee, she acted as an uninvited “consultant,” preparing many new tricks for the struggle session.

Mobilizing the masses through liaisons was not difficult at all. The common people already hated the clerks for their wrongdoings. They had previously been forced to bow their heads and endure humiliation and extortion. Now that they had a chance to retaliate openly, their anger erupted. Soon, more than two hundred people were organized from various villages in the county. Following instructions, Du Wen focused on recruiting people with high “hatred values,” especially those with blood debts.

Of course, among the “masses” was the native propaganda artist, Gou Buli. He participated in the struggle session as someone whose family had been ruined by the “flying sprinklings” of tax. Of course, since many people in the county town recognized him, Gou Buli could not publicly recount his tragic history this time and had to blend into the crowd to stir up emotions.

He was not fighting alone. About thirty interns who were destined for the propaganda department were also mixed into the crowd. During the meeting, they were specifically tasked with creating momentum. According to a pre-arranged agreement, they would applaud, cheer, roar, or shout designated slogans based on Du Wen’s signals. This group was the first batch of trainees from the propaganda and agitation short-term course, and the propaganda department treated this struggle session as a rare internship opportunity.

The struggle session the next day was a great success. Under the incitement of Du Wen and the native propagandists in the crowd, the masses were quickly aroused. New and old hatreds burst forth. Led by Gou Buli, a group of people rushed onto the stage and rained down punches and kicks, beating seven or eight of the clerks to death on the spot. The rest were all injured and terrified. For the clerks, scenes of torture were commonplace; even the punishment of death by a thousand cuts wouldn’t have made them flinch.

But this mass frenzy was truly terrifying. Hundreds of people, men and women, old and young, gnashing their teeth, rushed forward to punch, kick, and even bite, tearing limbs and flesh from bodies…

In an atmosphere of terror, group study sessions began. Participants were required to engage in “self-dissection” and “exposure.” They had to talk about their own problems as well as others’. In addition to the members of the study class, the clerks who were fortunate enough to be temporarily retained in the yamen also took turns participating in the “study” activities.

Du Wen hinted in the study sessions that whoever exposed and confessed the most, and in the most depth, would have a chance to live. Otherwise, they would be dragged to a struggle session to be struggled against. Consequently, for the next few days, the study class was filled with an atmosphere of conspiracy and betrayal. For a time, everyone in the class was in a state of panic, fearing for their own safety. Soon, Zhou Dongtian’s desk was piled high with exposure materials and “confessions.” Not only were past deeds confessed, but many non-existent ones were fabricated as well.

A week later, the clerks who had been idly chatting in the study class no longer spoke to each other. Many tried to show a strong desire to “turn over a new leaf.” They became much more cooperative during interrogations, not only answering questions but also proactively providing a lot of useful material.

But still, no one knew the whereabouts of the fish-scale registers and the grain tax account books—”Chen Minggang collected those himself,” was the unanimous answer from all the grain collectors.

Nothing could be gotten from Chen Minggang either. Since being brought to the study class, he had not spoken a word to his subordinates, acting like Xu Shu in Cao Cao’s camp. Zhou Dongtian had his men interrogate him once, with no results. He was also indifferent to the threat of being “struggled against” in a struggle session—Chen Minggang knew very well what the Transmigration Group wanted, and they would not kill him before they got it. He was counting on this to save his own life and the lives of his family, and to accumulate some capital for the future.

That night, Zhou Dongtian finally interrogated him personally. Chen Minggang’s attitude remained stubborn, and he ignored Zhou Dongtian’s questions. After a long silence, he finally spoke a few words:

“I have the fish-scale registers, and I have the grain tax account books,” Chen Minggang said, looking at him sideways. “But this is my livelihood. If I give it to others, won’t I have no way to live? Please have mercy, my lord!”

“What, you have no way to live? Have you thought about the lives of your wife and son?” Zhou Dongtian said, noticing his eyelid twitch. “And what about Qiuhong?”

“What are you going to do to them?” he asked, satisfied to see Zhou Dongtian’s expression become tense.

“That depends on whether you cooperate,” Zhou Dongtian said, blowing a smoke ring. “What we want is simple. You have it, so hand it over.”

“And after I hand it over?”

There’s a chance, Zhou Dongtian knew this was the beginning of negotiations.

“Alright, I guarantee the safety of you and your entire family, including Qiuhong. And I promise not to pursue your past deeds—speaking of which, your eldest son is also quite famous in the county town—I guarantee your family will not be sent to the labor reform camp.”

“And?”

“That’s all,” Zhou Dongtian answered bluntly. In this time and place, he had almost unlimited operational freedom and didn’t need to play the “leniency for confession” game to trick people into confessing.

“I’m afraid I can’t comply!” Chen Minggang said.

It seems this old fellow is really prepared to resist to the end. Zhou Dongtian spat out his cigarette butt and glanced at his men.

“Take good care of Eighth Master.”

“Yes, sir!” The few native political security interns had been rubbing their hands together, eager to use the “Australian torture device.” It was a mysterious thing—a small black box with a crank, from which two wires extended, each with a copper clip at the end.

This mysterious torture device had only been used on animals like rabbits during their training. They had never used it on a person, and they were all curious to see the reaction, whether the person would tremble violently as Chief Zhou had said.

Zhou Dongtian had no interest in watching them clip copper clamps to a man’s nipples and a certain part of his lower body. He lit a cigarette, knowing that his apprentices were now connecting the wires to the hand-cranked telephone. There was no conductive gel in this time, so the effect would be weaker.

“You are the first person from the Great Ming to enjoy such treatment,” Zhou Dongtian said to himself.

A few minutes later, a muffled scream came from behind the closed door. Zhou Dongtian thought, don’t crank it too much, it would be embarrassing if he died.

After finishing his cigarette, he went back. Chen Minggang was stripped naked and tied to the chair, his face covered in sweat, his body still trembling.

“You see, this thing is different from the torture instruments in the yamen,” Zhou Dongtian said gently. “You won’t die, you won’t be injured. If you’re willing, not only will you not die, you can live for many more years, hale and hearty. And for all those years, I can treat you to this seventeen or eighteen times a day…”

He signaled again, and his men immediately began to crank the telephone. Chen Minggang’s body shot up like a fish, stiffened for a few seconds, and then began to jump uncontrollably in the chair. A series of screams echoed in the room.

Zhou Dongtian signaled to stop again. “Tell me. Where are the fish-scale registers and the account books?”

Chen Minggang pretended to faint, but this didn’t fool Zhou Dongtian. He gave him two more short bursts of electricity, forcing him to “wake up.”

“I’ll talk, I’ll talk,” Chen Minggang finally broke.

“Good, don’t rush, speak slowly,” Zhou Dongtian motioned for someone to take notes. A native stenographer entered from the next room. She was a young girl. Seeing a naked, middle-aged man slumped in a chair, with several clips and thin ropes attached to his body, especially to a certain part, she was stunned. With a clatter, her stenographer’s pad fell to the floor.