Chapter 317: Haixi

Outside the Haixi County magistrate's yamen stood rows of short, squat stone cannons.

These stone cannons were a levy imposed by Haixi County on the two subordinate Mongol and Tibetan tribes. They looked just like the stone stools in a garden — surfaces rough and uneven, with a three-inch-wide bore inside. The caliber-to-length ratio was very short, but the interior was drilled relatively smooth.

The headmen of the two tribes stood with their retinues on the open ground in front of the yamen, each group on one side, glaring at each other — you glaring at me, I glaring at you — itching to draw bows and blades and have it out right in front of the magistrate.

These stone cannons were simple to make, requiring only basic stone-working skills, and extremely cheap to produce.

They were also very simple to use: load in two jin of gunpowder along with crushed stone and iron slag, seal the touchhole with pitch and yellow wax, then just set them among the rubble outside a watchtower or fort, run a fuse back into the fort, and when the defending soldiers saw the enemy coming, they lit it.

In essence, these were not cannons at all, but fuse-triggered bombs.

Of course, sometimes when the stone quality was fairly good, after ignition they would simply spray the shrapnel out like a cannon without the barrel itself shattering — in that case, you just had to retrieve it, reload it once more, and hope it broke apart the next time.

The county Liu Guoneng took over was very simple in composition: just three tribes.

His own clansmen and former followers counted as one Han tribe; Haixi had a Tibetan tribe; and Hainan had a Mongol tribe. The three tribes together numbered four thousand six hundred and sixty-two and a half people, making up the entire registered population of Haixi County.

The whole county was exceptionally poor. The common people lived by animal husbandry: on average, one household had three sheep, three households shared one cow, and each household had one horse or donkey or mule.

But averages are useless for everything — if the averaged figure looks passable, then the vast majority of people are surely living lives that are only just passable.

Liu Guoneng's clansmen and followers who had followed him here had reclaimed one thousand four hundred mu of land, nearly reaching the current limit of reclaimable farmland in Haixi County.

Locally, there were still roughly ninety thousand mu of land suitable for cultivation, concentrated mainly in the Hainan Mongol tribe's territory. But that area was currently grazing land, and Liu Guoneng could not persuade the Mongol headman to open it up for farming. He could only set the matter aside until the war ended and let Company Commander Wai Liangzi give it a try.

After all, Wai Liangzi was one of that tribe's own people.

Liu Guoneng clasped his hands behind his back and limped along on his lame leg, using calipers to inspect the thickness of each stone cannon one by one. Every time he passed a cannon, he lifted his brush and wrote four large characters on its side: POINT HOLE TOWARD ENEMY.

"Haixi Township delivers one hundred and twenty Weiyuan stone cannons; thirty-two do not meet specifications, leaving eighty-eight. Hainan Township delivers one hundred and thirty-three Weiyuan stone cannons; forty-two do not meet specifications, leaving ninety-one... Haul them to South Mountain Fort."

As for the seventy-four non-conforming stone cannons left over, Liu Guoneng knew perfectly well that these things could still be used, but he still ordered the yamen runners to take up hammers and smash every last one to pieces right in front of the two headmen.

The Qinghai Marshal's Headquarters did not yet have a unified tax code. Some places collected the added levy like the Mongols did; other places, like Haixi County, had not even begun collecting taxes — it was basically a tribute system.

Changes in a person's status are the easiest thing to provoke reflection. In the past, Liu Guoneng was a village licentiate, and his reflection on the dynasty's decline was that it collected too much tax. Now Liu Guoneng was an official of the Marshal's Headquarters, and his reflection on the dynasty's decline was that it collected too little tax.

"Too much tax" referred to the total amount including all levies, while "too little tax" referred to the dynasty's land tax. In truth, they were the same thing. The lesson and reflection Liu Guoneng drew from this concerned only the benevolence or malevolence of a regime's face at its founding.

For the past half year, Xining Prefecture had been debating the question of taxation — mainly the livestock tax, the business tax, and the customs duties.

The reason there was no land tax was that the Marshal's Headquarters, from top to bottom, had a very strong bias on tax matters.

They were a group of people who had risen in rebellion and suffered many losses. Land annexation was only one of those losses — and drought and extortionate levies were the most severe problems; land annexation, by comparison, was not even that important.

But the fact that they had succeeded was indeed partly thanks to land annexation, so they were naturally more inclined to demand taxes from the great households, and they also naturally understood that land annexation had to be curbed.

Any common soldier knew that as long as peasants did not go bankrupt, the broad mass of peasants would not rebel. Therefore, you had to set a limit — below a certain number of mu per person, no tax or only a light tax.

Under this premise, the Qinghai Marshal's Headquarters barely controlled any land to begin with, so it simply could not collect any land tax.

On the other hand, as they transitioned toward a formal government, once the eastern campaign began, they would need to regularize the Juerwan market, and the business tax and customs duties would be put on the agenda.

Yet ever since Liu Guoneng learned that his county contained ninety thousand mu of land awaiting reclamation, he had fixed his gaze solely on the land tax and submitted memorial after memorial.

The Great Ming's land tax of one-thirtieth was benevolent policy, but whenever the court ran into any trouble, this grain and money was simply not enough. When it was not enough, they had to impose levies; imposing levies meant getting cursed and losing the people's hearts.

And as the court ossified, officials multiplied, and wars dragged on year after year, the various levies grew more and more numerous. Nearly half the common people's harvest was taken away — so what was this one-thirtieth tax even worth? Better to just follow the example of Cao Wei: five-tenths to the public, five-tenths to the people, and take the cursing only once.

Liu Guoneng submitted three memorials to the prefectural yamen, proposing that the land tax be set high. The first time, he proposed one-tenth. After investigation, he discovered that the Tibetan tribes on the border between Xining and Huangnan were already paying the added levy twice, so he submitted a second memorial proposing one-fifth.

After the war began, when he heard that the Junior Lhazang had fled, he was overjoyed and directly submitted a memorial proposing that the Marshal's Headquarters implement a land tax of one-third or even one-half.

Liu Guoneng believed the Junior Lhazang was the stumbling block to the Marshal's Headquarters' tax rate, because in Huangnan, the Lhazang imposed an added levy of one-tenth.

The Lhazang did nothing but collect the added levy; beyond restraining his followers from plundering the locals, he bore no responsibilities whatsoever. The Marshal's Headquarters, by contrast, had to take on a whole series of social responsibilities: building bridges and roads, reclaiming farmland, recruiting soldiers, and so on.

But the common people who paid the added levy and the taxes did not care about any of that. People only knew how much tax you collected.

So as long as the Lhazang did not leave, Liu Guoneng had no way to voice his true thoughts. His logic was this: if you ensured the locality was clean, free of all messy levies, the peasants could bear a direct tax of one-half. They were living in an age of war — that was simply how it was.

Moreover, with the fresh, vigorous spirit of the newly established Marshal's Headquarters, the cadastral surveys and household registrations would all be solid, real figures. Every piece of land they conquered, every old ruler they uprooted, they could exercise an unprecedented degree of dominion over that land.

The taxes collected would only decrease over the next one or two hundred years, never increase. What was more, in the future Liu Chengzong would have sons — whether he became King of Qinghai or Lord of All Under Heaven, upon succession they could cut the direct tax by a few percentage points to win the people's hearts.

Setting it high at the start had no downside; setting it too low, on the contrary, was planting a bomb for the future.

However, neither Liu Guoneng nor Liu Xiangyu had any decision-making power in these tax debates. They were merely doing preparatory work for the final resolution to come.

None of them knew what the situation was south of the Marshal's Headquarters — only Liu Chengzong knew.

But Liu Guoneng's philosophy on taxation — strict at first, lenient later — was already being implemented in Haixi. Even if it was just two tribes contributing some stone cannons, he would enforce it with the utmost strictness: whatever the rules stipulated, that was exactly what had to be delivered.

"Magistrate Liu, don't smash them." The Mongol headman stepped forward to stop him. "These have names on them. If you smash them, we won't know who made which."

This headman who had come from the Hainan Mongol tribe was Wai Liangzi's father-in-law. His name was Old Man Liang.

Old Man Liang spoke Chinese, so all dealings with the Marshal's Headquarters fell to him. By doing it over and over, he had become the officially recognized headman.

His surname originated from a commendation letter Liu Chengzong had sent to Wai Liangzi's wife, praising Wai Liangzi as a heroic figure and a mainstay of the Marshal's Headquarters, saying that Wai Liangzi was a Baghatur personally titled by the Grand Marshal — a brave warrior.

So their entire family, including those two kids of about ten, now all held the title of Baghatur. What was the Han character equivalent of Baghatur? The old Mongol man thought it over: mainstay, pillar... hmm, it must be "Liang."

Thus, when Haixi County registered the households, their whole family took the surname Liang.

Hearing Old Man Liang's words, Liu Guoneng waved his hand. "This is the first time, so I am smashing them directly. And do not go back thinking of punishing anyone for this. Next time, just have people make them exactly according to specifications."

The two headmen nodded in assent. Afterward, the stone cannons were loaded onto carts by the yamen runners and transported to South Mountain Fort, in preparation against raids by the various Mongol tribes of the Chaka Salt Lake.

With this matter settled, Liu Guoneng called the two headmen into the yamen and asked, "How goes the smallpox inoculation among your people?"

Pox doctors were physicians who specialized in variolation, with the primary aim of preventing smallpox.

People had discovered that those who had suffered smallpox never caught it a second time, and so the technique of variolation developed. During the Jiajing reign of the Ming dynasty, a physician from Ningguo Prefecture created a relatively mature attenuated variolation technique.

Even now, the physicians who roamed the realm inoculating commoners were still mostly from Ningguo Prefecture.

Three hundred years later, this would be considered a very backward, ancient medical art, but in the Ming dynasty, it was the most advanced science in the world.

Technology is yesterday's science; science is tomorrow's technology.

The Marshal's Headquarters had not originally paid attention to this matter, but last year a tribe in Huangnan was completely wiped out by smallpox, and it was then that Liu Chengzu took notice.

The reason that tribe was wiped out was not entirely smallpox. Contracting smallpox would kill roughly four out of five people... Strictly speaking, smallpox was not that lethal, but in this era, even a fever or diarrhea could take a life. No one could distinguish whether a person breaking out in pox died from that or from something else.

Moreover, there was an incubation period of up to twenty days. People had no means of guarding against this disease; once it arose, it spread like wildfire, burning everywhere.

So when the Lhazang heard that someone had broken out in pox, he directly dispatched troops to implement the highest level of quarantine — the separation of the living from the dead.

Even though the disaster hadn't landed on his own head, Liu Chengzu was still afraid. He found two smallpox inoculation physicians from Ningguo Prefecture in Xining and wanted to inoculate the entire army. They had no idea where they'd be sent to fight next — if the troops caught this disease, the whole army would lose its fighting strength, and in wartime that meant death.

In this era, inoculation was generally given to children one or two years old. A mortality rate under five percent was considered a success, and physicians with better vaccine-cultivation skills could control it to one death per four hundred inoculations.

Liu Chengzu executed one of the two inoculation physicians. The man had loudly proclaimed he possessed superb vaccine and technique, able to limit deaths to one in five hundred. In the end, he inoculated one hundred and twenty soldiers of Zhenhai Battalion, thirteen of whom died — nearly triggering a mutiny.

The other physician's skill was better, roughly one death per hundred. He was granted an official post by the Marshal's Manor and built a Smallpox Manor below the Qilian Mountains north of the sea. At first, vaccine supply was limited and he only inoculated the army. This year, he began inoculating the common people as well.

However, the people of the two counties west and north of the sea showed little enthusiasm for inoculation. They could accept being parted by death after catching smallpox, but they could not accept a one-percent fatality rate.

After all, one is Heaven taking a life, the other is charging headlong into death's path yourself — the psychological difference is enormous.

Old Man Liang shook his head. "Not even half. Now that war's broken out again, none of the tribesmen are willing to make the trip to the Smallpox Manor."

"Wait until the fighting's over. Once it's done, everyone must be inoculated, and by then the Grand Marshal will be back," Liu Guoneng said. "I heard General Zhong say the enemy movements on Heka Grassland are unusual. The Grand Marshal may already be coming up from the south."

Old Man Liang nodded heavily. "Rest assured, Magistrate Liu. Once the war ends, I'll take my tribesmen straight to the Smallpox Manor... There's another matter I came about. What date has Magistrate Liu's official robe been scheduled for?"

Liu Guoneng was caught off guard by the question, then sighed. "Let me figure it out."

The Marshal's Manor had no systematic court-dress regulations. Prefect Liu Xiangyu and Yang Dingrui still had no official robes to this day, and they got by just fine without them.

But the county magistrate had to have official robes, because when couples married and registered at the county office, they needed to borrow the official robe and the phoenix crown and ceremonial cape to wear as the wedding attire for a proper, formal marriage.

For the wedding, the man had it much simpler — he wore whatever the county magistrate wore. The woman's side was slightly more complicated: the county office had to prepare the phoenix crown, phoenix hairpin, gold hairpin, ceremonial cape, cape pendant, and hanging rings.

It was precisely for this reason that the Marshal's Manor's county magistrate robes were mainly used for commoners to wear at their weddings. The people only wore them once, on their wedding day, and for many it was the finest clothing they would ever wear in their lives.

Liu Xiangyu had once served as acting magistrate of Mizhi. He knew this custom was extremely important and greatly beneficial to public morale, so he specifically ordered the Weaving Bureau to use the finest fabrics and the best craftsmanship to make the county magistrate's official robe in dark-patterned crimson and the phoenix crown and ceremonial cape.

Liu Guoneng was deeply fond of that official robe — the fabric, the color, in the past it would have been for officials of rank four and above... but he had never worn it even once.

He calculated in his head for a moment, then said to Old Man Liang, "October. The next wedding is the sixth day of the tenth month. A soldier from Nanshan Fort — I've forgotten his name, General Zhong told me. If you want to use it, it'll have to be the seventh of the tenth month."

Old Man Liang counted on his rough fingers and his face fell. "Doesn't that mean waiting another three months?"

Liu Guoneng nodded, then waved his hand in exasperation. "Just wait. I've been waiting half a year and still haven't worn it once myself. These wedding parties are practically wearing it out on me. So which general's command is the happy occasion under this time?"

Old Man Liang's face froze. He lowered his head, paused, then said, "This time it's not under any general's command. It's a young man from our own tribe. Well... Magistrate Liu, can our tribal young men not borrow the official robe for their weddings?"

"Huh? What do you mean, can't borrow?"

Liu Guoneng's eyes widened at this. "Let me tell you — rules are rules. When you marry, you wear the official robe. You must wear it!"

"Go back and tell the couple they're tentatively set for the seventh of the tenth month. There are many soldiers marrying ahead of them. If a battle comes up and someone ahead can't marry on their date, I'll move them up. Anyway, everything's ready. Three days before the date, a runner will notify you."

Old Man Liang was overjoyed to hear this and chuckled happily. The young man in the tribe who was marrying had tended his horses for days in return for asking this favor. He had been deathly afraid Liu Guoneng would refuse this trip and he'd fail in his mission. Now, hearing this, the great stone in his heart fell to the ground, and he felt utterly at ease.

Just then, a dust-covered mounted messenger came running in from outside the yamen. He entered the hall and reported: "Magistrate Liu, urgent report from Nanshan! The Grand Marshal fought nine battles and won nine victories at Heka Nanshan, routing the enemy forces. The vanguard has already reached Heka Grassland!"