Chapter 636: Hitting the Mark by a Fluke

Hancheng, rear hall of the county yamen.

The night wind stirred the study, candle flames flickering; warm candlelight fell upon Zuo Maodi's face.

On the desk lay a single flimsy sheet of paper, and a little finger resting in a wooden box.

The letter's salutation read: To the Magistrate of Hancheng, Elder Brother Zuo, with respect; the signature read: From the Grand Marshal's Headquarters, your younger brother Chengzong, respectfully submitted.

The handwriting was in the standard Chancery Script, yet not rounded and restrained enough — it could hardly contain its sharp edge.

Zuo Maodi's eyes were fixed on the letter, but his pupils had long since lost focus, his thoughts flying far beyond the ninth heaven.

He recalled his youth in Shandong — bright clothes, spirited horses, both parents still alive, still ignorant of the world's suffering.

Because his father, Zuo Zhilong, first served as Vice Prefect of Yan'an Prefecture and later as Prefect of Luanzhou, he was provided with excellent material conditions; outside the western suburbs of Laiyang there was even a Western Villa Thatched Hall, used solely for his studies.

And his mother, Lady Chen, was the eldest daughter of Chen Zhi'an, Assistant Commander of the Ninghai Guard, so throughout his youth he traveled back and forth between town and garrison, studying books and practicing martial arts.

With his brothers and friends, he joined the Shanzuo Grand Society, a branch of the Restoration Society, making friends and gathering, exchanging learning, debating current affairs — his literary fame spread far and wide.

On the other hand, he had grown up under the watchful eyes of the garrison generals since childhood; bows, sabers, firearms, and cannons were nothing more than his childhood toys.

People said that even when he was merely a certified student, he already possessed a reputation that filled the realm, insufferably arrogant.

Until he was twenty-three, the year of the provincial examinations, his father suddenly passed away. He did not sit the provincial exams; he buried his father in his hometown, built a thatched hut beside the grave and dwelt there, observing the three-year mourning period, missing the next provincial examinations.

Afterwards, he became even more filial and attentive to his mother — every night he would talk with her, only going to sleep after she slept; every morning he would eat with her, only leaving to study after she had finished her meal.

People at the time all said that after his father's death, Zuo Maodi had collapsed and never recovered, becoming the world's laziest sluggard, not rising and leaving the house until the sun was three poles high.

The six most soaring and turbulent years of a young man's life — three years he spent keeping his father company at the graveyard, three years at home keeping his mother company. Only at twenty-eight did he fight a single battle, against White Lotus sect followers.

Other certified students all used bows and arrows; only he used a cannon.

One shot, the barrel burst and hit himself; one shot, he fired and struck the enemy leader.

Not until twenty-nine did he sit the provincial examinations and earn second place on the list; at thirty he passed the metropolitan examinations and became a presented scholar, receiving the appointment of Magistrate of Hancheng.

These three years in Hancheng were the harshest test Heaven ever gave him, and also the three most meaningful years of his life.

In the fifth year of the Chongzhen reign, the moment he arrived at his post, roving bandits had already been ravaging this land for three years — great outlaws like Wang Er and Wang Zuogua came in waves, and countless petty bandits harassed the county borders.

And the roving bandits were only a minor problem Zuo Maodi faced as magistrate.

The real, great problem was that neither rain nor snow fell.

In the fifth year of Chongzhen, winter brought no snow, spring planting was delayed, no wheat; summer rains were scant, autumn frosts came early, killing the grain.

The sixth year, winter again brought no snow, wheat could not be sown; the seventh year, spring again brought no rain, fertile fields turned to scorched earth.

Widespread famine — many starved to death. Wealthy households could still cope, but the poor common folk went from eating grass roots and scraping tree bark, to selling wives and children, and finally to scraping flesh from the dead to eat.

Beyond all this, there was also Zuo Maodi's most fundamental, most basic duty as a magistrate selected by the Ministry of Personnel and personally approved by the Emperor: collecting taxes.

This place, Hancheng — on the registers, seven thousand two hundred ninety-three households, sixty-two thousand six hundred thirty-seven souls.

A population census from the fortieth year of the Jiajing reign, seventy years ago — none had been done since.

How many common folk were there in reality? Zuo Maodi knew; he had conducted a census as soon as he arrived, he just never reported it upward.

After these years of calamity and chaos, the population now stood at just over one hundred ten thousand.

The population here was not small, but the land had a problem: the last time the fields were surveyed and measured was also seventy years ago.

Hancheng lies close to the Yellow River. Over these seventy years, the Yellow River had repeatedly washed away and destroyed the shoreline fields, but though the fields were destroyed, the taxes still had to be paid according to the old rules.

This meant that Hancheng's past tax collection had been in a state of perpetual deficit — that is, even if the county magistrate collected one hundred percent according to state law, the common folk of Hancheng would still owe the state over two thousand dan of silver and grain.

So even without the drought, the villages along the river that had lost their fields still had to hand over this grain.

The solution, simply put, was to survey the land and equalize the grain tax.

But in practice, surveying was impossible — the magistrate, a lone outsider unfamiliar with the place and the people, had the will but not the power.

Those beside the magistrate, above him, below him — all were locals with tangled, complex personal connections, and none were willing to resurvey the land.

Only those luckless villages along the river, some ten thousand people in all, wanted a resurvey — but they could not even fill their bellies; how could they study, how could they do business, how could they possess any voice in the county?

This was not something that could be solved simply by those elderly, young, sick, and crippled — not a single intact garment on their bodies — spotting him along the Yellow River banks and kneeling in vast, dark crowds to kowtow.

That was indeed a powerful force that shook the heart, yet when the golden, radiant lord magistrate returned to the county yamen, Zuo Maodi was still fighting alone — not a single person shared his purpose.

Zuo Maodi lacked the ability to survey the land; the only thing he could do was play the scoundrel.

Three years in office, every year he submitted reports asking the imperial court to forgive past tax arrears — which, of course, was impossible to grant.

But to Zuo Maodi, that did not matter; he was never someone who pursued what "ought" to be done.

Just as, in an age that no longer so fervently practiced mourning rites, though he clearly had the ability and the qualifications, he voluntarily missed two provincial examinations — he had always done only what he himself believed to be right.

The taxes the court wanted collected, he collected; those with the ability to pay who tried to evade, he pursued and collected from; but those without the ability to pay, who fell into arrears... let them owe.

Others said, if you do not press for tax collection, when the officials who assess merit for the court arrive, you will have no achievements, and Hancheng will have held you back.

Zuo Maodi said, those people truly cannot pay the tax. Even if I, for the sake of my political record, dispatched clerks to press and flog them, I still could not collect the tax, and would instead harm the people's hearts and the nation's vitality.

Even if the court's merit-assessment officials do not pardon me, I am perfectly willing.

And so Zuo Maodi's little Hancheng, three years after he took office, owed the imperial court fifteen thousand taels of silver.

He not only owed the court — in truth, his own salary had also been poured into Hancheng.

In the sixth year of Chongzhen, when the entire county was stricken by disaster, he promulgated a law of donating salaries to encourage relief, taking the lead by donating fifty taels of silver from his own salary — a full year's work for nothing.

He then visited all twenty-eight wards of the county to investigate, rooting out three thousand five hundred twenty-nine people so famished they were barely breathing, and set up eight relief stations across the county, enduring through that year's bitter winter.

By last spring, the starving populace had grown even larger; relying on salary donations and exhortations could no longer aid them, so he promulgated a law of each ward relieving its own ward, requiring the county's twenty-eight wards to each provide relief to their own neighbors and starving folk in urgent need — five thousand two hundred people in all.

There were also three hundred eleven vagrants whom no ward or tithing would take in; the county yamen set up gruel kitchens to relieve them.

At the same time, he classified the county's starving populace into three grades — extremely poor, moderately poor, and slightly poor — totaling over fourteen thousand people, compiled a register and reported it upward, securing one thousand four hundred thirty-seven taels from Shaanxi.

That year was a provincial examination year; Zuo Maodi was selected as an examiner for the Shaanxi provincial examinations. From the Hancheng he governed, only a single person passed the exams — this struck him deeply, leaving him inwardly profoundly uneasy.

"Someone as outstanding as myself, governing Hancheng, yet there is not even a hint of a culture that esteems letters and values education?"

Upon returning, he established the Classics-Venerating Society in the county seat, selected certified students, and personally lectured them on the classics twice a month, pioneering an emphasis on education.

And for students from impoverished households, he allocated funds from the county yamen, giving each person between one qian five fen and two qian of silver, to prevent them from dropping out of school due to poverty.

Because Hancheng was short of grain, by the time Zuo Maodi took office the Ever-Normal Granary was already empty. To prevent grain prices from skyrocketing, he used his own salary to buy one hundred dan of grain, then called on the local gentry and wealthy households to donate two thousand dan, and re-established the Ever-Normal Granary.

This expenditure meant another two years of his work went for nothing.

No matter what, Zuo Maodi had done his utmost. With officials and commoners united in purpose, Hancheng still remained in a state of eating through its reserves with nothing coming in.

Although they all tried their best and employed every measure they could, very few of Hancheng's poor commoners turned to banditry.

But with the war having reached this stage, the merchant and wealthy households' sources of income were basically cut off, while the poor families' fields and grain were ravaged by bandits time and time again.

If the fighting in Shaanxi continued, Hancheng's future was utterly bleak.

The night breeze had turned cold.

Zuo Maodi came back to his senses, rubbed his swollen brow, and focused his gaze on the passage in the letter about "Hancheng's one-year exemption from taxes and levies."

A smile unconsciously spread across that face, which was like an iron statue of Lord Guan. In his heart he could not help but let his imagination drift to scenes of the people of Hancheng recuperating and rebuilding their lives after the tax exemption.

At the very least, for now the Marshal's Manor seemed to have no intention of encroaching on Hancheng. They would get a rare window of opportunity to let the land recover its vitality.

He even thought of using the Marshal's Army to complete the work of cadastral land surveys in Hancheng.

This was a matter that would meet great resistance if done by locals, but for those outsiders from the Marshal's Manor it would be very simple.

This entrenched abuse that had weighed on the heads of Hancheng's commoners for decades — if it could be swept clean in a single morning, Hancheng would surely burst forth with powerful vitality.

Only... thinking of Chen Qiyu's envoy from that day, the smile on Zuo Maodi's face gradually cooled again.

This situation had already played out countless times in his brief three-year official career.

Whenever he naively thought that things would improve from here on, the current situation would always coldly slap him hard across the face, trampling the peach-blossom paradise he had painstakingly built into a complete mess.

Zuo Maodi had grown used to it.

But this time it truly could not happen.

Although in terms of identity and sentiment, Zuo Maodi was very willing to follow Chen Qiyu's instructions and dispatch troops — even his mother, Lady Chen, had exhorted him that their family had received the dynasty's grace for generations and must not fail the emperor's weighty trust.

But Hancheng had no troops to dispatch. The eleven companies of local braves here were all militia, bearing only the duty to defend their homeland, with no will to fight abroad.

The problem of recruiting soldiers was even more complicated. The Hancheng yamen did not have that much money to recruit soldiers.

Their recruitment sponsors were not Zuo Maodi, but the Four Surnames within the city and the thirty-six wealthy households of the Hu, Dang, Ding, Yang, and other families in the outskirts.

All the provisions, weapons, armor, pay, and even clothing and daily necessities for the recruited soldiers were funded and supplied entirely by those thirty-six households. Their job was to protect the region and keep the people safe; they had no obligation to go beyond the borders and risk their lives.

Most importantly, after all these years of effort in Hancheng, the roving bandits had threatened Hancheng three times and been repelled three times by the officials and commoners risking their lives — was that not all for the sake of peace in the countryside and a chance to recuperate?

Now that chance was within easy reach, so long as they did not provoke the Marshal's Army.

Getting them to send out troops — how could that be easy?

And yet, Xi'an Prefectural City was in critical danger. The envoy who had passed through the siege camp at the risk of certain death to deliver the oral message had, during the day in the yamen hall, been ridiculed by the gentry. In a fit of rage, he drew his blade and chopped off his little finger, then turned and rushed back toward Xi'an Prefectural City.

Looking at that severed little finger, Zuo Maodi's conscience was wracked with condemnation.

An even greater bewilderment was that he did not know when aiding the court by sending troops and bringing peace to the common people had become contradictory choices.

That very night, Zuo Maodi wrote with furious speed, ordering yamen runners to leave the city under cover of darkness and deliver the letters to Heyang, Pucheng, Weinan, and other places.

He thought to himself that although Hancheng could not send troops, he ought in principle to relay Chen Qiyu's instructions, trapped as he was in the besieged city, to the other localities. Perhaps others would have the means to dispatch troops.

But just as Zuo Maodi was still pondering how much effect his letters could have, the surrounding counties had already raised their forces.

The first to raise troops was Heyang County to the southwest.

The magistrate of Heyang was called Fan Zhimao, a provincial graduate from Yucheng in Henan and a descendant of Fan Zhongyan.

The situation there was somewhat different from Hancheng. They did not have the empty tax payments tied to the Yellow River, but their extra expenditures were even greater than Hancheng's.

Because Heyang County hosted a garrison battalion called the Han-He Battalion. The entire battalion's supplies depended on Heyang County's provision, which was a tremendous drain on the people and their resources. Magistrate Fan Zhimao had always wanted to disband the Han-He Battalion.

A garrison battalion could certainly drive off bandits, but the situation in Shaanxi these past few years was clearly not something the military could solve.

Outside roving bandits could be beaten away, but the food, clothing, and upkeep of an entire battalion — never mind the current drought, even without a drought, Heyang County alone could not sustain it.

On this matter, Zuo Maodi must also be mentioned. This battalion was called the Han-He Battalion, and in principle Hancheng and Heyang should supply it together. But Zuo Maodi had governed Hancheng for three years and owed the court fifteen thousand taels; economically, he simply could not provide military pay.

And objectively speaking, every bandit force that reached Hancheng had been driven off by Magistrate Zuo Maodi leading troops personally — and driven off in a manner that if they fled into the mountains, he would fight and annihilate them there; if they fled onto the river, he would launch boats and chase the enemy, pursuing and hounding them relentlessly.

He simply never troubled the Han-He Battalion to bestir itself.

So much so that asking Hancheng for grain or money became impossible to even broach.

The officers and soldiers of the Han-He Battalion were also deeply aggrieved. We're stationed here, our military discipline is quite good, but we don't get enough to eat, we don't get enough to stay warm, and when bandits come we're the first to go — we've even lost a Mobile Corps Commander. Yet you locals still bear such huge grudges and threaten to disband us at every turn.

As if we care!

Magistrate Fan Zhimao was already locked in a dispute with the Han-He Battalion's commanding officer Li Guozheng over military expenses. The moment they received Zuo Maodi's relay of Chen Qiyu's instructions, the two of them immediately hit it off.

Heyang County would provide the mobilization funds, and the Han-He Battalion would dispatch troops to support Xi'an Prefectural City.

In the blink of an eye, as Zuo Maodi's letters circulated among the various counties north of the Wei River, and taking advantage of the moment when the Marshal's Manor was busy transporting supplies, a fairly presentable army was organized on the northern bank of the Wei River.

Their commanders were respectively Han-He Battalion Assistant Commander Li Guozheng, Pucheng Assistant Commander Sun Shoufa, Hancheng Assistant Commander Liu Jinjue, Regional Commander Zhang Jizai, and six thousand troops.

This army cut straight across Pucheng, resupplied with materials from the great merchant houses of Xiaotong Town, encamped at Guanshan for half a day, and that very night crossed the Wei River southward, entering Weinan territory.

They headed south to Weinan to link up with the landlord armed forces that had risen there.

Because Weinan County had a great clan, the Nan family, which had produced nine Presented Scholars and three Ministers in a single lineage.

At present, the clan elder Nan Qizhong had formerly been Minister of Rites in Nanjing; his son Nan Juye was currently a Secretary in the Ministry of Rites; and there was also Nan Juyi, formerly Governor of Fujian, who had been stripped of his rank and sent home from his post as Minister of Works.

This clan possessed vast fields and numerous servants. As early as when Liu Chengzong had let word out that he would redeem farmland at one tael of silver per mu, and then sent men to Weinan to conduct cadastral surveys, they had already been contemplating an uprising.

Now, seeing an army gathering north of the Wei River, they immediately responded, funding the recruitment of soldiers in Weinan with the intention of joining Li Guozheng and the others to lift the siege of Xi'an.

In truth, despite the grand scale of the mobilization, all these commanders knew the stakes were enormous.

In order to deliver a sudden strike against the siege camp outside the prefectural city, their communications had been relatively secretive, and the troops moved by night and rested by day. Thus, when six thousand troops were assembled north of the Wei River, Liu Chengzong knew absolutely nothing about it.

It was not until this army, moving by night and resting by day, entered Weinan.

Two hours after they entered Weinan, Liu Chengzong, one hundred and fifty li away on the Xianyang plateau, received the news.

This Ming army could never have dreamed that what they were doing was tantamount to trying to steal a blade of grass from someone's pocket, only to stomp squarely on the owner's vital organ.

The intelligence of their entry into Weinan was reported to the Marshal's Army by Mongol soldiers escorting supply trains.

Xie Erhu changed horses four times, covering a hundred and fifty li in two double-hours. By the time he reached Xianyang, the seams of his trousers had split from the riding. He rushed frantically to find Liu Chengzong and report.

He said, "Grand Commander! Now I know why Zhang Tianlin never replied — a Ming army came from north of the Wei River and struck straight at our supply route, sealing off Weinan!"

Liu Shizi instantly exploded with rage. The nameless, pent-up fury that had smoldered in his heart for days finally found an outlet: "My soldiers are at Tong Pass helping you block the plague, and you motherfuckers cut my supply line?"