Chapter 286: The Occupation of Jeongui

“And stone men!” Nangong Wudi suddenly noticed stone statues standing at the town gate, their appearance quite peculiar.

These were the unique stone statues of Jeju Island: the “Dol hareubang,” a manifestation of ancient stone worship.

However, Nangong Wudi was not a cultural scholar, much less a tourist. He had little interest in these things. After observing the defenses on the town wall for a long time, he shouted:

“Zichuan!”

“Here!” Zichuan Xiuchi, who had already been promoted to Sergeant in the Public Security Army, immediately ran out from the ranks. A platoon of the Public Security Army had been incorporated into the task force for the attack on Jeongui County town.

“Take your men and capture the county town for me within ten minutes.”

“Understood!” Zichuan replied crisply.

Zichuan and his men quickly prepared for battle. He glanced at Nangong as if asking for permission. Seeing the other man nod, he fiercely drew his tachi, a savage look in his eyes. “Fix bayonets!”

As Zichuan raised his tachi high and let out a blood-curdling roar, the thirty-odd Japanese mercenaries of the Public Security Army’s Japanese Company, holding their Southeast Asian-style rifles with gleaming bayonets fixed, all screamed “Banzai!” at the top of their lungs and began a “boar’s rush.”

Leading the charge was the “Battōtai” (sword-wielding unit), led by Zichuan himself. They brandished their shining tachi, roaring as they rushed forward.

“Suppressive fire,” Nangong Wudi ordered.

All the Minié rifles opened fire on the town wall. A dense rain of bullets swept across the top of the wall. After one volley, there were no Joseon soldiers left standing.

The Japanese mercenaries quickly crossed the open ground—there were no moats outside the town, so they easily approached the wall. Under the suppressive fire of the Minié rifles, not a single arrow was shot from the wall, nor did anyone dare to stick their head out to throw a stone. The mercenaries soon reached the base of the wall. They had no ladders or ropes, but the short, sturdy Japanese soldiers formed human ladders, one on top of the other.

The first to climb the wall was the Battōtai. Only after getting on the wall did they realize how tragic it was—the top of the wall was at most wide enough for one person to stand; two people couldn’t even walk past each other. If it weren’t for the slope behind them, a misstep would at most result in a tumble down. Otherwise, the Japanese mercenaries, who had swarmed up with frenzied roars, would have surely had a few fall to their deaths.

There were few Joseon soldiers left on the wall. Under the continuous fire of the Minié rifles, the low and thin parapet could not stop the high-velocity bullets. Some soldiers were killed instantly, while others took full advantage of the slope and immediately slid down the other side.

The bloody battle on top of the wall that Zichuan had envisioned did not happen. They faced only a few dozen terrified Joseon soldiers with no will to fight. When they saw that this group of “Wokou” had already climbed the wall, apart from a few officers who led a handful of soldiers to put up a token resistance before being quickly cut down or bayoneted, the rest scattered in all directions.

In less than ten minutes, the Japanese mercenaries had occupied the town gate. Zichuan flicked his tachi to shake off the blood, led a few men down from the wall, and rushed to the gate. They removed the bar, opened the gate—all in one smooth motion.

“Not bad,” Nangong Wudi looked at his watch. Exactly ten minutes. Although it was expected, the fanatical, Japanese-devil-like fervor displayed by these mercenaries was quite a sight.

The main force quickly entered Jeongui County town. The process of occupation and plunder had become a standard procedure established by the Planning Institute. The Institute had even compiled an ISO standard manual to guide the steps of occupying a newly captured city, which was a course in the training of military officers and administrative personnel. And in every dispatched unit, a Special Search Team under the jurisdiction of the Planning Institute was incorporated to handle the reception, registration, and custody of spoils of war and prisoners.

The troops entering the town quickly cleared out the scattered soldiers. After hoisting a banner that read “Surrender and be spared,” and continuously broadcasting in Korean with a megaphone, the Joseon soldiers who hadn’t been killed soon came out from various corners to surrender in twos and threes.

Due to insufficient forces, they could not surround the entire town, so many soldiers and commoners inside the town escaped by jumping over the wall. Nangong Wudi did not pursue them—this was an island, and it was not easy for fugitives to cross the sea to the Korean peninsula. Apart from a few, most of them would eventually fall into their hands.

Nangong Wudi, with an air of grandeur, entered the town with his guards and staff, to the tune of “The Grenadiers March” played by fifers and drummers. Unexpectedly, just as he stepped through the gate, he stepped right into a mud puddle, splashing filth all over his relatively clean uniform.

“Damn it,” Nangong Wudi cursed. He had forgotten that in this era, the streets of most cities, both Chinese and foreign, were not paved. Stepping in mud was a perfectly normal occurrence.

There was a brief period of chaos in the town, but it was quickly suppressed by the Public Security Army and calm was restored. The commoners and government slaves had thought the Wokou had come. Many had jumped from the undefended sections of the wall and fled to the wilderness to hide. Others hid in deserted parts of the town. Those who didn’t manage to escape could only hide in their houses and await their fate.

The accompanying civil affairs personnel posted public notices to reassure the people and then continuously broadcasted in Korean to calm their minds.

Nangong Wudi toured the county town with interest. Jeongui County town presented a scene of decay. The houses were all low buildings with walls of volcanic rock and thatched roofs. Even the official buildings like the county school and the garrison headquarters, though they had tiled roofs, were equally small. Basically, a person standing on the ground could touch the eaves with a raised hand.

The houses of the common people and government slaves didn’t even have floors, just packed earth. Only the slightly wealthier merchants and officials had raised floors. Due to the geographical environment of Jeju Island, the interiors of most houses were very damp and cold.

The county had a school, a government granary, and a small market with a few small shops and workshops.

The shop owners had all fled, leaving their shops empty. Nangong Wudi looked around; they were just the basic commercial and handicraft businesses found everywhere, such as a sauce workshop, a grocery store, a carpenter’s shop, a tavern, and a blacksmith’s shop. However, he did see a very special workshop: a bow and arrow shop.

The bow and arrow shop was large and empty. The fire for baking bamboo was still lit. A pot of ox horn glue and fish bladder glue was simmering on the stove. The floor was piled with wood, bamboo poles, feathers, ox tendons, and ox horns. Finished bow bodies hung on the walls.

Walking through it, he could see finished and semi-finished products everywhere. Nangong Wudi roughly estimated that there were at least a hundred finished bows and three or four hundred semi-finished ones. As for arrows, there were even more—just the thin bamboo shafts for making arrows numbered two or three hundred bundles.

Clearly, so many bows and arrows could not possibly be for Jeju Island’s own use. It was more likely that they were an export product.

Considering the abundance of horses and cattle in the area, it was natural that there would also be a plentiful supply of cowhide, ox horns, and horse and ox tendons—all essential raw materials for making bows and arrows.

The occupation command headquarters was set up in the best building in the county town: the Jeongui Garrison.

Nangong Wudi took his seat in the main hall. The captured clerks of the county’s six departments, who had not managed to escape, were brought before him. The local government of the Joseon Dynasty was a miniature version of the Ming’s. The county magistrate’s office also had six departments—personnel, revenue, rites, war, public works, and punishments—responsible for the county’s affairs. The clerks of these six departments were all selected from the local gentry. They were very familiar with the local situation. Therefore, the first step after capturing a town was to control these people.

With no salary and no prospects for advancement, the minor clerks who lived on gray income generally had low loyalty to the dynasty. This was true in the Ming, and it was the same in Korea. Especially when their own lives and property were threatened, the clerks quickly chose to cooperate.

The official language of the Joseon Dynasty was Chinese. Although the “Eonmun” script existed, it was not widely used. Scholars and officials did not use it; it was mainly used by women and the lower classes. Because all important official and private documents were written in Chinese, these clerks, although they could not speak Chinese, could all read and write it. Therefore, the staff sent by the Planning Institute could communicate with them without difficulty through “brush talk” without needing a translator.

The clerks quickly provided sufficient information about the county. The population of the county town, including the village just outside the walls, was eight thousand. Two-thirds of them were government slaves. Of course, many commoners lived in the various villages outside the town. The total population of the county, including public and private slaves, was fifteen to sixteen thousand.

Regarding horses, all official horse pastures were under the unified management of the Jeju Magistrate; the county magistrate had no jurisdiction. However, there were some private pastures that raised horses, cattle, and sheep.

“Is there a man named Kim Man-il in this county?” Nangong Wudi suddenly asked.

The clerks looked at each other, thinking to themselves, “This band of Wokou has their eyes on Master Kim!”

Kim Man-il was a famous wealthy man in Jeju at the time. He had once donated ten thousand horses to the court and was granted the title of a court official.

“Master Kim lives in Jeju, not in this county,” one of the scribes replied. “He also has pastures within this county’s borders.”

The most valuable piece of information from the clerks’ testimony was about the grain reserves in the town: the two government granaries held over ten thousand shi of grain. This figure greatly encouraged Nangong Wudi—at least until the refugees arrived, the food supply was abundant.

However, the subsequent conversation quickly dampened his spirits.

It was true that there were over ten thousand shi of grain in the county, but Jeju Island had just suffered a famine last year, and the private grain reserves were extremely low. It was now early winter, and by the time of the spring lean season next year, relief would be necessary. Moreover, there were five to six thousand government slaves in the county, and these people basically relied on the county magistrate for their daily rations.

The government slaves farmed and herded for the county magistrate but received none of the harvest themselves. Their food and clothing were all provided by the county magistrate. During natural disasters, the large number of government slaves, instead of being a productive force, became a huge burden on the garrison.