Chapter 221: Levying Taxes

Zhu Youjian had been pondering one question lately: how to dispatch officials to levy commercial taxes, and in what manner they should be collected.

Commercial taxes must be collected comprehensively—this was to raise the funds needed for establishing a navy in the future. The navy could no longer be allowed to remain under the sole dominance of the Zheng family; a way had to be found to eliminate this destabilizing factor.

A navy was an enormous drain on money. The warships of the future navy would first have to be purchased from the West, and those Western-style gunboats were extremely expensive—new tax categories would have to be opened up. As for building ships domestically, that could only proceed after bringing in a large number of talented people.

Originally, the largest source of Ming tax revenue came from the agricultural tax, which accounted for over seventy percent of the entire court's tax income, while the salt tax and commercial tax each accounted for only ten percent. This lopsided tax policy meant that the poorer the farming household, the more taxes they paid to the court, while the wealthier a person was, the lighter their social responsibility—the result was that the people had no means to live, and in desperation they banded together, taking up hoes and rakes to rebel.

Three years had passed since he had transmigrated into this era. Through various efforts—reducing land taxes, abolishing the Golden Flower Silver, thoroughly reforming the salt industry, and other measures—he had maximized the income of the privy purse and the Taicang treasury, greatly lightening the heavy burden on the vast majority of farming households, and enabled nearly all farming households in the Ming to reap enormous benefits from it. It could be said that the possibility of another large-scale rebellion had been essentially eliminated.

As long as ordinary people had a bite to eat, they would absolutely not rise up against the court. Especially now, with their days improving day by day, the large-scale tax reductions had given all farming households hope for the future. Under these circumstances, even if a pyramid-scheme mastermind from later generations transmigrated into Li Zicheng's body, they could not possibly incite more people to follow him in rebellion and death.

But since one side was diminishing, the other side ought to grow.

The foundation for political stability was already solid, so it was time for the vested interest groups to bleed a little.

In the Ming, you could touch anything except the interests of the scholar-official class—not even the slightest bit. Whoever touched them would, from top to bottom, be branded by rank as a fatuous ruler, a treacherous minister, or a petty villain. As for eunuchs, no need to say it—they followed the Emperor around. If the Emperor was docile and listened to the scholar-officials, then the Emperor and his eunuchs enjoyed a good reputation. If the Emperor had even a hint of his own ideas, especially ideas that touched the interests of the scholar-official class, then sorry—the Emperor and his eunuchs became a fatuous ruler and treacherous sycophants.

In the Ming, in the eyes of the scholar-official class, the state existed to protect their interests; every other class existed to serve their plundering of benefits. If they were asked to contribute even a single cent to the state—then was such a Ming still the scholar-officials' Ming? Did such a Ming still have any reason to exist for the scholar-officials who controlled the nation's resources?

Where should tax collection begin?

The first thing Zhu Youjian thought of was the customs houses along the Grand Canal. To intensify tax collection, that was where he had to start.

The Ming's customs houses didn't charge everyone either—they had three categories they wouldn't collect from: official ships, eunuchs' ships, and ships belonging to jinshi and juren.

When merchant ships passed through Ming customs houses, they found every possible way to evade fees. Some made a pair of fake plaques and set them up at the bow—one side reading "Premier's Residence," the other reading "Office of Transmission Main Hall"—to pass themselves off as official ships, just like civilian trucks in later generations hanging military license plates. Others hired a jinshi or juren to sit on board as a protective talisman; when passing customs, if the collectors demanded money, they'd send the talisman out to handle it—similar to how certain road-trippers in later generations tried to bring a journalist along when driving out. Times change, but the tricks still make comebacks.

Passing oneself off as an official ship carried too much risk, but hiring a jinshi or juren as a protective talisman worked every single time. So in the Ming, jinshi and juren could be called versatile all-rounders—they not only drove the flourishing development of the culture and education industry, but also distinguished themselves in the private shipping sector. The shipowners paid them handsomely in return: one xiucai escorting two civilian ships at once could pocket five taels of fine silver as a consulting fee. Jinshi and juren were far more prestigious than xiucai, so they were even more qualified to help people avoid paying tolls—and naturally commanded higher compensation.

To change this situation, all ships had to be treated equally—the free-passage system had to be abolished. Except for official ships, every vessel had to pay.

Whether you were a first-rank grand minister or a newly minted jinshi, if the ship you rode wasn't an official one, that proved you weren't traveling on official business. Since you weren't traveling on official business, why should you get an exemption? As for those juren and xiucai, no need to say more—every customs house would have Censors and Embroidered Uniform Guard officers stationed there. In their eyes, even the bigwigs of the Grand Secretariat were nothing, let alone a mere juren like you.

Mm, that's the way. Start with the customs houses—raise the collection rate to one-twentieth. After the customs house issued a receipt, no yamen along the route could levy any further charges; violators would be dismissed on the spot.

This decree would certainly meet fierce opposition. No matter—Zhu Youjian wanted to see exactly who would step forward to oppose him.

The situation was stable now, with a strong army in hand. The Jianzhou barbarians couldn't pose a threat for the time being, so there was no fear of the vested interests turning the world upside down.

As long as anyone dared to step forward in opposition, Zhu Youjian had already tailored a fine destination for them.

Next came the mining tax.

The Wanli Emperor had done this before, but his methods and techniques were too crude, and in the end he botched it.

The Wanli Emperor sent eunuchs to collect taxes that went into the privy purse, having nothing to do with the Taicang state treasury. And those eunuchs' methods were utterly rotten: if a mining inspector took a fancy to a shop or property, he'd claim there was a mineral vein beneath your house and come to dig it up. You either watched your property be destroyed, or you could only bribe the mining inspector to "settle your tax." Obviously, much of this tax money never entered the accounts and was pocketed by those handling it. In the end, the Wanli Emperor collected little silver yet was cursed up and down—this self-defeating approach was too idiotic, and the only ones who profited were that pack of eunuchs.

But copying the later-generation method of establishing a dedicated tax-collection department didn't seem realistic either—that would require a large number of specialized professionals. With the Ministry of Revenue's current staffing, even if they were all deployed, they couldn't make much of a splash.

Since direct collection was difficult, then collect it all at the source: the Four Seas Trading Company would handle the mining, the court would split the profits, and if there was any resistance, they'd be uprooted and eliminated entirely.

To address the talent shortage that would arise from the future prosperity of manufacturing and commerce, the Four Seas Trading Company had already opened training classes at the imperial estates, hiring experienced shop managers from the capital's stores to teach, specializing in instructing students in bookkeeping and auditing methods. On officials' rest days, the company would also pay handsomely to invite relevant officials and clerks from the Ministry of Revenue to come lecture—these people were even more professional than the company's own shop managers.

Because everyone already knew full well the background of the Four Seas Trading Company, no resistance was encountered when inviting people to teach. On the contrary, many people vied to go, hoping to latch onto the thickest thigh in the Ming.

The students were, of course, the orphans that the Embroidered Uniform Guard had gathered into the imperial estates over the years—though not all of them. Only those aged fourteen or above with quick minds could be selected.

At the same time, at Zhu Youjian's direction, the Imperial Academy of Medicine also opened training classes in the schoolhouses built at the imperial estates. The academy's director, deputy directors, and imperial physicians took turns going to teach, and locally renowned physicians in the capital would also be invited to lecture whenever they had spare time.

The main content of the instruction was the battlefield rescue measures that Zhu Youjian had discussed with Wu Youxing and others—including disinfection, bleeding control, bandaging, nursing care, and so on. As for how exactly these measures were to be implemented, Zhu Youjian himself was rather vague, but once he laid out the ideas, it was up to experts like Wu Youxing to refine and implement them.

The Imperial Academy of Medicine's teaching audience was much broader—anyone aged sixteen to fifty, regardless of gender, could participate. Although some imperial physicians and Bureau Directors were reluctant to teach women and those coarse farming folk, under various forms of coercion and inducement they could only hold their noses and comply, because the Embroidered Uniform Guard was involved as the leading party.

The reason for launching this large-scale training was to prepare for next year's Liaodong campaign.

Stockpiling grain, giving soldiers leave to rest and recuperate, organizing medical rescue teams, equipping the Capital Camps and the Yongwei Camp with wagon formations, changing battle tactics—all of this was preparation for war.

No large-scale war could be fought just because someone said so. Without sufficient logistical support and preparation, rushing into battle meant only defeat and ruin—just like the Battle of Songshan in history.

Zhu Youjian had already decided: in the eleventh year of Chongzhen, he would launch a massive offensive against Jianzhou, dealing it a devastating blow, killing and wounding its effective strength, so that it would no longer have the power to oppose the Ming.