Chapter 469: Know When to Read the Times

On the thirteenth day of the third month, in Suzhou City.

Hu Zhishen, the hereditary Commander pressed into service like a duck onto a perch, stood atop the city wall utterly lost, gazing west with a face full of worry.

The soldiers of Suzhou Garrison could go their whole lives without seeing battle, and all had a spirit that rejoiced at the mere rumor of war — but Hu Zhishen had no such spirit.

Since inheriting the hereditary post of Commander at eighteen, he had spent twelve years without receiving a substantive commission. In civil affairs he could not bring peace to the realm, in martial matters he could not settle the world, yet he had trained a pair of eyes keen at discovering excellence — to put it simply, he saw everyone else as more capable than himself.

He believed in one truth: in a Suzhou Garrison of several thousand households, there were bound to be a few world-shaking heroes like Zhao Zhirui and Ding Guodong, and likewise bound to be a few useless little good-for-nothing pastries.

What baffled him, though, was that after all these years he had never once discovered a useless little pastry in Suzhou Garrison — which could only mean, most likely... that little good-for-nothing was himself.

After all, Suzhou City's last battle had been in the fourth year of the Longqing reign. As hereditary Commander, Hu Zhishen's father had never fought a war during his tenure, and in his own case, his name had been given all wrong — never mind "Aspiration Profound," he was utterly devoid of aspiration and wholly absorbed in enjoying life, spending his days admiring flowers, planting trees, feeding cats, and raising rabbits, utterly ignorant of anything useful.

Reckoning from the first beacon smoke rising at Jiayu Pass, five full days had passed.

In these five days, Suzhou's foremost figure, Mobile Corps Commander Zhao Zhirui's army, had been defeated by the rebel general Zhang Tianlin; the Seal-holding Commander of Suzhou Garrison had perished in the fray, reportedly kicked to death by a single hoof of a warhorse; the most capable Battalion Commanders, Hei Chengyin and Mi Layin — one was at Jiayu Pass assisting in its defense, the other besieged by Zhang Tianlin at Linshui Post Station.

The Great Ming's lucky numbers were three and seven. The northern Ming army's horse and foot equipment ratio was three horse to seven foot; the garrison's rotational farming and defense was likewise three defending to seven farming.

The wildest bunch in Suzhou Garrison had all followed Hei Chengyin and Mi Layin out of the city. Those left behind were all honest, dutiful, well-behaved good folk.

But when it came to fighting a war in the Great Ming, Hu Zhishen felt the job still needed villains — good folk wouldn't do, more apt to spoil things than accomplish anything.

Take right beside him, for instance: three good folk were presently very eager, all rushing to the city wall to lend their strength to the defense as the rebel army encircled the city — every one of them a Suzhou notable.

The one he knew best was called Dong Ju, Suzhou's Instructor whose pupils filled the garrison, a man of profound erudition who could recite Sun Tzu's Art of War backwards and forwards. In thirty-eight years of teaching, not a single student had ever passed the examinations. Now, at the advanced age of fifty-nine, he was ready to face the nation's peril, a goose-feather saber at his waist and a three-eyed arquebus on his shoulder — old but vigorous.

The second was somewhat younger, named Yan Zhi, a handsome old gentleman of forty-six. He was a Suzhou country squire of considerable repute — no money to speak of, no men at his command, no land to his name. He had become a squire first by relying on his wife, and second by relying on himself.

Sixteen years ago, his wife had died of illness. Master Yan swore an oath never to remarry, raising his children alone. Though the court never erected a memorial arch to honor it, the common folk for miles around revered his deep devotion and called him the Righteous Husband. Any major event, they would invite him over — a pity that in sixteen years, he had never once offered a useful suggestion on any major matter.

These two were unimpeachable in character and virtue, but of no great help whatsoever in defending the city.

Fortunately, there was one last man: Wang Yanming, a hereditary Commander like Hu Zhishen who had never received a substantive commission. This fellow had twelve household retainers and was a bare-staff general well-versed in drill manuals.

Add Hu Zhishen, who knew nothing at all, and Suzhou's Four Formidable Men were fully assembled.

In truth, Hu Zhishen was not entirely without merit. He possessed the self-awareness to recognize his own shortcomings, and the discernment to see the strengths in others. Thus, in his view, relying on these few specimens to drive back the invading enemy would be difficult — but holding a strong city for a few days was not impossible.

Commander Wang Yanming was versed in drill manuals and could deploy troops in formation; the old Instructor Dong Ju understood military strategy and could serve as army advisor; the Righteous Husband Yan Zhi enjoyed widespread esteem and could recruit local militia.

Suzhou was also a garrison city — raising a field army would be difficult, but men and women, young and old, could all take up city defense duties with the greatest of ease.

Now only one difficulty remained... the four of them were penniless. Though each held status far above the common man in Suzhou, none had money, grain, or authority. Raising troops required money; defending the city required grain. Without these two things, people would likely be unwilling to mount the walls and fight.

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"Go door to door and make them donate!" Commander Wang Yanming said indignantly. "The city's about to be lost, and they still want their money and grain?"

"Absolutely not."

The Righteous Husband Yan Zhi had seemed reluctant to speak, but now, hearing Wang Yanming's plan to force donations, he hurriedly said: "What Commander Wang does not know is that Marshal Liu has risen to power by two things — first, his skill in battle; second, the hearts of the people. Those rebels would never make the common folk donate money and grain. If we make them do so, this city may not need defending at all."

"What kind of talk is that, Husband Yan!"

Wang Yanming shot back a retort, but did not press the point. He simply stalked off to one side in a huff. "Then what do you propose?"

The others looked to the old Instructor. Dong Ju pondered a moment, then said: "Husband Yan speaks truly. In this old man's view, money and grain must still be sought as donations from the wealthy households."

"Old sir, that is no easy matter."

Hu Zhishen shook his head, looked at the others, and sighed. "The moneyed and grained in Suzhou City are only a handful. The most likely to donate would be General Zhao's household. But the General has just been defeated and has yet to return — can we go knocking on his door to press for donations now?"

The General Zhao he spoke of was Suzhou Mobile Corps Commander Zhao Zhirui. Such a course would certainly be improper.

Then they heard Dong Ju say: "General Zhao is not the only one in Suzhou City with money and grain. That gallant in our city can also produce funds. I taught him once — I know he is not a bad sort, sincere and open-hearted, and should be willing to lend his strength."

At the word "gallant," the expressions on the three men's faces all turned rather odd.

For in Suzhou, the term was largely pejorative. Only one man in the city bore that title: his name was Song Xian, childhood name Little Fox.

He came from a poor farming family. His father died when he was fourteen, and then his mother fell gravely ill. He served her with all his heart and was famed for his filial piety. Unable to continue his studies, with no one to work the family fields, the land inevitably fell to waste. After his mother passed, he sold all the fields to neighbors for capital. The family fortunes declined, and he became a traveling merchant. He made little money, but could still more or less count as an honest man with a trade.

Five years ago, Song Xian pulled off something big. He sold off everything he owned, traded it for a batch of goods from the Western Regions, and went to Jiangnan. For three years, not a word was heard of him. Everyone assumed the orphan had died a stranger's death in a foreign land — yet he returned home in brocade robes, with a thousand taels of silver and a retinue of servants and companions.

The servants and companions were fierce and agile — it was said they were all disbanded soldiers and starving bandits he had taken in during the drought, every one of them a hardened character. Song Xian's own temperament had changed utterly. He opened a rice shop and pawnshop inside the city, built gambling dens and brothels outside the walls, trafficked in inferior wine, and made his living from moneylending.

People called him a gallant solely because of his hypocritical posturing.

Under the hierarchy of scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants, the merchant's status was the lowest. Scholars were officials. A small farming household might never grow wealthy, but if they could afford schooling, there was always the day when the examinations might turn their fortunes around. An artisan of superb skill could likewise become an official. The merchant was different — the most he could ever hope for in this life was a couple of stinking coins. Everyone looked down on him.

Of course, the "artisan" in scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants did not refer to common laborers, but to craftsmen possessed of a skill. In the Xuande reign, the Wuxi stonemason Lu Xiang, master of the "trifling craft of carving insects," and in the Yongle reign, the Wu County carpenter Kuai Xiang, who designed the Chengtian Gate — later Tiananmen — both rose by their skill to become Vice Minister of Works, directing great construction projects. In the Jiajing reign, the Yangzhou carpenter Xu Gao, who built the Three Great Halls, even became Minister of Works — unprecedented before and since.

The "farmer" in scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants did not refer to tenant farmers or hired hands either, but to landowning yeomen and landlords.

The four-class system was the pillar of the state. In the Ming dynasty, at the imperial court level, there was no head tax. Tenant farmers and hired hands neither paid taxes to the state nor performed labor service for the state — therefore they were not "farmers," and did not even belong to the category of "commoners." When they had work and land to tenant, they could barely count as commoners.

When they had no work and no land to tenant, they were utterly despised. Standing still, they were called idlers; moving about, they were called vagrants.

Their social status was only higher than the debased registers — those hereditary slaves, prostitutes, musicians, fisherfolk, boat-dwellers, and outcasts.

And among the four classes, the lowest social status belonged to the merchant — and the merchant who made his living from moneylending at interest was the most disgraceful of all trades. This, of course, was the worldview of an official-centric ideology.

In reality, officials did not discriminate solely against merchants. Officials were quite simply even-handed in their disdain — they looked down on everyone except themselves.

In Commander Hu Zhishen's eyes, Song Xian was a clever man who was also a thorough scoundrel.

He trafficked in inferior wine, getting the down-and-out drunk and muddle-headed so they could not attend to proper business. Without proper business, they had no income and had to pawn their belongings at his pawnshop. With the money they got, they went to his rice shop to buy grain to eat.

When the grain was gone and they were desperately poor, they had to borrow money from him. Borrowing money only made them more anxious about where to get money, driving them back to his wine shop to drink themselves into a stupor. Drunk, they would delude themselves into thinking they could turn their fortunes on a single roll of the dice and stumble into his gambling den. When they lost everything beyond redemption, they had no choice but to go to his brothel to sell their children.

Those with skill and luck who could get money could not help but go to his brothel for a good time as well... In short, that bastard wanted every last coin to end up in his own hands.

Hu Zhishen turned the name Song Xian over in his mind and nodded to himself.

If they could persuade Song Xian to contribute money and effort, perhaps defending the city would yield twice the result with half the effort. But whether he would be willing to do so, Hu Zhishen could not be sure.

The people of standing in Suzhou looked down on Song Xian, but among the common folk of poor households, the fellow was quite popular.

Because on the third day of every month, Song Xian would stand beneath the bell-and-drum tower at the crossroads of Suzhou's Jiuquan City, have his servants carry out a box of loan receipts, and let a child from the garrison reach in and pull one out at random. It would be read aloud and burned in public — no matter the sum owed, both principal and interest were wiped clean.

In this world, no one needs luck — except those in despair.

There were many wealthy households in Suzhou Garrison that lent money, but when these military households, farming households, and small peddlers wanted a loan, they preferred to borrow from Song Xian. Apart from often sending those whose debts had been forgiven to organize gambling parties outside the city, he could be called a law-abiding and upstanding merchant.

But Hu Zhishen only found the man strange.

Many provisions of the Great Ming Code had lost their force by this period — take the sale of land and houses, for instance. By law, the buyer was required to report the transaction for inspection, pay the deed tax, and affix the official seal. The deed tax was three percent of the total price.

But the circulation of private farmland and house sales was extremely complicated — usually the property wasn't handed over immediately after the contract was signed. The loophole was to first sign the contract at a low price and pay a lower deed tax, after which the original landowner would then demand the remaining sum matching the market price from the buyer through a practice called "price supplementation."

This behavior had mostly arisen during the Wanli reign when housing and land prices were rising. It was essentially a rogue practice of bullying others, but government officials, in adjudicating cases, often used Confucian teachings to embellish their legal methods, leaning as much as possible toward pitying the poor and following custom. They sympathized with the weaker party selling land or a house who came seeking supplementary payments. Within three supplementary price demands after a final sale, they would usually give support; there were even more outrageous cases of demanding supplementary prices over a dozen times without being punished.

And the deed tax on supplementary price payments was generally waived by the authorities.

Nowadays, with market prices for houses and land unable to rise, there were generally no cases of sellers playing rogue and demanding supplementary payments. But it had become customary among the people to use lower prices to evade deed tax. Usually, unless it was an extremely luxurious courtyard residence, the authorities took an attitude of "no complaint, no investigation."

Yet for all the farmland and houses Song Xian had handled in the past two years, he had, without exception, set a single price according to the law and paid the deed tax in full.

Lending was the same. The Great Ming Code stipulated a maximum monthly interest of three percent, and even if a loan dragged on for years, the law only protected the lender's earnings up to one principal and one interest; for the excess portion, the law supported the borrower in not repaying.

But what the law stipulated was one thing, and how it was enforced among the people was another. No decent, respectable household could withstand debt collectors making a scene every day, and ordinary, simple farming folk had neither the time nor the energy to study the Great Ming Code and fight lawsuits. Most of the time, these legal provisions were nothing but dead letters.

Yet Song Xian, of all people, followed them to the letter. His lending interest was the unalterable three percent per month, never compounding, and never exceeding one principal and one interest. In fact, over the past two years, he had never even let the interest accumulate to equal the principal. Often, when the interest reached sixty or seventy percent of the principal and he saw the borrower couldn't repay, he would reduce what he could, buy the person's wife and children, or simply burn the IOU in public and take the goodwill.

It was precisely because of this that Hu Zhishen found Song Xian very strange. He said: if you say he's fallen into a money pit, he's still quite particular about human relationships and social graces; but if you say he's not after profit, this bastard has practically built a closed business loop in Suzhou. He goes to so much trouble yet can't make big money — what is this man after?

Hu Zhishen had Wang Yanming leave a few household soldiers on the wall to keep watch, and the four of them immediately went together to Song Xian's three-courtyard residence to solicit donations. They all knew persuading Song Xian wouldn't be easy, but they never imagined his attitude would be so exceptionally unyielding.

Old Master Song, dressed in a cotton blue robe, invited them into the hall. Hearing their purpose, he first calmly bowed to the four of them: "Teacher, two generals, and righteous husband — please do not be angry. This humble one opposes the matter, not the person, and only seeks a principle."

The man frowned, unhurried and unflustered: "Song Xian conducts himself by obeying public duty and abiding by the law. I haven't shorted the court a single cent of tax. Now that war is here, if a few highly respected gentlemen want this petty merchant to donate grain and money, there ought to be some justification. Without the guard battalion's seal, where in the Great Ming Code is there such a provision?"

Instructor Dong Ju said: "Brother Li, you can't speak like that. Since you were small, this old man has taught you to put great righteousness first. Now that the bandits will be at the city walls any day, is this not precisely the time for a scholar to do his duty and die for honor?"

"Teacher, that's not the right principle. Dying for honor is no problem; giving money and grain won't do."

Song Xian cupped his hands, showing a trace of difficulty, and rolled his eyes: "If the Marshal's Mansion rebels break into the city, they'll just make me donate grain and money too. So if the city holds, Song Xian pays out money and grain; if it doesn't hold, Song Xian still pays out money and grain... I'm not the county magistrate of Suzhou."

Hu Zhishen said nothing, but the hot-tempered Wang Yanming couldn't stand Song Xian's indifferent attitude and roared: "You damn usurer, you don't know what's good for you! If the city falls, your Grandpa Wang is certain to die on the battlements — do you really think I'd let you live to see the rebels?"

The good-natured Yan Zhi, hearing this, hurried to intervene, but unexpectedly Song Xian suddenly laughed. He rose, bowed with great respect, and said: "General Wang's words have reason. If you'd said that earlier, I would have recognized the situation. In that case, these two boxes of IOU slips of mine — one man for each slip — can produce a thousand soldiers. Let's go to the drum tower right now, burn the IOUs, and recruit troops!"

The others were greatly astonished, but Wang Yanming snorted and laughed: "At least you know what's good for you. Let's go — I'll have the banner troops issue weapons right now."

In a moment, Song Xian's dozen or so attendants, driving grain carts, clustered around the four men as they headed toward the drum tower. Along the way, they beat gongs and drums, calling out to friends and companions. Crowds of commoners, hearing that IOUs would be burned to recruit soldiers, followed in a mighty, surging mass.

The crowd grew larger and larger — those in debt, those watching the excitement, those using the grain distribution to scrounge a meal, banner troops from the guard battalion coming to transport weapons. People grew more and more stirred, jubilant and exultant.

Beneath the drum tower, Song Xian drew out IOU slip after IOU slip, called out names, and threw them face-to-face into the blazing fire. The destitute and down-and-out shouted his name, grasped weapon after weapon, and watched the shackles of their imprisoned lives turn to ashes in the leaping firelight.

As more and more people received weapons, the Suzhou Guard banner troops organized them into squads, forming small square formations one after another at the crossroads.

When the IOUs were nearly all burned, beacon cannon alarms sounded from the city wall, four reports in succession. Beacon fires also shot up into the sky. The bells and drums of the Cross-Piercing-Heart Tower immediately began ringing without stop. The fine hairs on Song Xian's face stood on end one by one. His attendants, using the crowd's panic, split into two groups — one melted into the crowd, the other shielded him.

At that very moment, Song Xian grabbed the last handful of IOUs and threw them into the fire. He spread his arms wide and shouted: "Maitreya descends, the Han King emerges, together we cross the three tribulations, together we go to wealth and glory — revolt! Revolt!"