Chapter 84: Tribute Negotiations
"Old Wu, you made it!" Zhou Dongtian strode in just as Wu De was reading. His training suit was splattered with ink stains—an occupational hazard for the man who now ran the Document Printing Office. Before the crossing, Zhou had served as a fire department officer and later worked in the judicial system, but his extensive familiarity with printing had landed him this particular assignment. Most of the equipment in the office had been purchased with his own money.
Wu De pointed at the proof sheet. "So we're publishing a newspaper now?"
"The Committee approved Dingding's proposal. It'll be a small irregular publication—nothing fancy. First print run is fifty copies."
"I think the positioning is all wrong," Wu De said. "Who's the target audience supposed to be?"
"You think we don't know Marx?"
"If it's meant for locals, why use simplified characters?" Wu De shook his head. "Has the Committee even considered literacy rates? Of the hundred and thirty-eight prisoners I manage, only Zhang Xingjiao can read and write properly. Two or three small landlords know a handful of characters, but that's it. Illiteracy runs above ninety-five percent. In that kind of environment, printing newspapers is an exercise in futility."
"We're about to launch literacy classes for your labor teams." Zhou Dongtian gestured toward the computers. "The Cultural-Education Group has already drafted preliminary teaching materials. We're also preparing lithographed flash cards."
"Creative thinking, I'll grant you that."
"All Dingding's ideas." Zhou Dongtian chuckled. "That journalist really thinks big—ambitious as they come. He's not satisfied with just newspapers. He wants to publish textbooks too."
"Well, having ideas is good. Here's my manuscript—please print it as soon as you can."
"That little thing? I can just run off wax stencils. Give me a moment." He went to power up the computer. Wu De's draft was already in the system, transmitted directly via the wireless network to the office automation system—saving even the effort of typing it out.
"Since we have computer networks," Wu De sighed, "why bother printing documents at all? Pure bureaucratism."
"Probably to leave written archives for future generations. Computers won't last forever." Zhou Dongtian adjusted the machine and fed in the wax paper. "Give it another ten years, and we'll likely be doing everything by hand. I brought an old Chinese typewriter along—when the machines finally give out, we'll depend on that for making stencils."
After the mimeographed materials were ready, one copy went routinely to the Intelligence Group for archiving. Wu De headed directly to discuss matters with the Committee leadership.
"You're saying the prisoners are growing uneasy?" Wen Desi asked.
"Yes, and I suspect some will remain that way." Wu De indicated his trend report. "According to the latest assessment, the small landlords, rich peasants, and middle peasants who own their own homesteads are getting restless. Harvest season is approaching, and they can't return to work their land. They're worried about their families."
"There can't be that many of them."
"True, but ordinary tenant farmers face similar problems. If they don't bring in the harvest, they can't pay their rent. Their own livelihoods and their families' security hang in the balance."
"Mm, I see."
"The only ones truly comfortable here are the destitute without family obligations, or the long-term laborers who have nothing to lose."
"So few actually want to join us." Wen Desi sounded discouraged.
"That's the reality. We are attractive to the poor—especially after we introduced worker benefits. For former hired hands, working for us beats working for wealthy landlords. But for tenant farmers and poor peasants with some family and property to their name, it's a harder sell. They care most about living peacefully, without disruption. Frankly, these people doubt whether the red flag can fly for long."
"Until we achieve a greater victory or gain legitimate status, that doubt probably won't go away." Xiao Zishan looked equally disappointed.
"Even so, we must press forward." Wen Desi considered the problem carefully. "Remember the predetermined policy—the Beacon Effect. Once everyone sees that serving us means living better, they'll naturally gravitate toward our side. Common people are practical. They focus on what's right in front of them."
"I agree. Give people genuine benefits, and they won't forget it."
"There's another matter," Wu De continued. "Those eight Li minority prisoners are still being held in the POW camp—they haven't been assigned to any labor teams. What does the Committee plan to do with them?"
"We're preparing to use them as a breakthrough for establishing relations with the Li tribes to the south," Xiao Zishan explained. "Mu Min is working on it. We should have results within a few days."
The implication was clear: this fell outside Wu De's domain. He nodded his understanding. Just then, Wen Desi's PHS buzzed. Someone spoke briefly on the other end, and Wen Desi replied, "Have them wait. Treat them well. We'll be there shortly." He turned to Wu De. "We have local visitors."
"Oh?" Wu De's interest was piqued.
"Regarding the prisoners. Come with us. Bring Xiong Buyou as well, and the local interpreter—get everyone together."
"Understood."
Ever since the county's two-pronged counterattack had ended in catastrophe, tension had gripped Lingao County once more. According to the militia survivors who had straggled back, the pirates' firearms were devastating—a single volley was enough to kill everyone in the vicinity. Even the renowned Huang Family Village militia had been routed; Huang Shoutong himself had been gravely wounded and carried directly back to Huang Village. The city's residents were in a panic. Some gentry had already begun transferring property and household members to distant relatives or their own rural strongholds. Others claimed family emergencies or sudden illnesses as pretexts to return to their home villages. Even the refugees sheltering inside the city walls wanted to leave—rumors swirled that these short-haired pirates would wash the streets in blood as revenge.
Several days passed. When it became clear that the shaven-headed pirates had no intention of attacking, officials and gentry began to calm somewhat. But the heavy losses sparked bitter internal quarrels. The supposedly flawless attack plan had failed ignominiously, proving that Jinshi Liu's vaunted suppression strategy was worthless. Whispers spread that Jinshi Liu was nothing but a "scholar playing soldier"—failing both the court above and his homeland below. Liu Dalin, already frail, had exhausted himself over a month of planning only to see it end in disaster. Infuriated by the outcome and the gossip, he retired to his home to recuperate.
Magistrate Wu was furious but could do nothing to stop him. Each day he sat fuming in his reception hall, consumed by worry. The pirates had been camped on his shores for nearly a month now, with no sign of departure. The gentry had lost faith in him. City morale had collapsed entirely. If the shaven-heads launched an assault, his archers and militia would likely scatter at the first shot. As for aid from the prefectural capital—besides a letter advising him to "guard the city" and other useless platitudes—the only communications he received were reminders that the court's autumn grain collection was imminent and that he must focus his attention on that.
"Collect grain! Collect grain!" Wu Mingjin muttered bitterly. "Everything has gone to hell—what grain is there to collect?" After stewing over the problem, he could think of only one recourse: consulting his private secretary.
Secretary Wang, whose given name was Zhaomin, was Cantonese by origin. He had spent years serving in various prefectural and county secretariats across the province and knew local procedures inside and out.
The secretary pondered for a while, then spoke quietly. "Your Honor, since we cannot expel the pirates, we can only pay tribute."
"Tribute?" Magistrate Wu started, nearly leaping to his feet to denounce the absurdity. But years of navigating local politics had taught him restraint. He composed himself quickly.
"Would it work?"
Secretary Wang stroked his beard, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "Call it a tactical expedient. The most pressing matter is the autumn grain. If this season's collection proceeds smoothly, all will be well. As for the pirates? Fujian has its troubles, Guangdong has its troubles—can't we have ours as well?"
"Yes, yes, the elder speaks wisely." Magistrate Wu felt as though a path had suddenly opened before him. Then his brow furrowed. "But surely this matter cannot be hidden from our superiors—and the secret police—" He glanced instinctively around the room.
"Your Honor need not worry. In officialdom, the less trouble, the better. As long as the autumn grain enters the granary and the county seat remains in our hands, do you think the prefect will concern himself with the details? The others likewise." Secretary Wang lowered his voice conspiratorially. "With the power these pirates have demonstrated, if they wanted this county seat, they would have taken it already. Why else would they camp at Bairren Rapids? They haven't plundered or killed anywhere in our county—quite righteous behavior, really. We simply buy ourselves some peace for now."
"Reasonable, quite reasonable." Wu Mingjin nodded repeatedly. "But this is no trivial matter—"
"Your Honor, rest assured." Secretary Wang's expression radiated confidence. "Those eager to pay tribute to the pirates won't be us—it will be the gentry." He leaned in and spoke at length, his voice barely above a whisper.
Indeed, the gentry were anxious about their harvests. Some had relatives missing from the failed suppression campaign and desperately wanted to contact the pirates. Once Secretary Wang dropped a few subtle hints, everyone set about making arrangements on their own.
After some discussion, the gentry settled on a down-on-his-luck landlord named Zhang Xingfu as their representative. His father had been a gambler who had nearly ruined the family, leaving Zhang with barely a hundred mu of hillside land—purely dependent on the weather's mercy. However, his wife's family had distant connections to the Liu Xiang gang, which allowed him to speak with various armed groups operating in the area. He often served as an intermediary with pirates—negotiating terms, arranging hostage releases. No party fully trusted him, yet when trouble arose, they still needed his mediation. He sustained himself on the side income and fees this role provided.
Those accompanying him were either someone's household manager or a distant kinsman of little consequence. The gentry feared being captured for ransom if they appeared in person, so they sent expendable people instead. All the visitors brought gifts: pigs, sheep, various presents, and formal calling cards. Following the era's gentry etiquette for interactions between peers, each card humbly styled its bearer as an "unworthy student."
They walked less than half a shichen from the county seat before earthen berms and guard towers came into view ahead—the pirate camp had been reached. These pirates had been ashore for over a month now; everyone knew the name, yet few had actually laid eyes on them. Many had heard how they crushed the county's strongest militia in moments, how even Huang Shoutong had been struck down. But word of their good discipline offered some small reassurance.
(End of Chapter)