Chapter 1775 - Commotion
"We can use this opportunity to completely shut down the Guandi Temple network." Mu Min was in charge of public order; by her standards, this already qualified as a major case—one that would ordinarily involve the provincial-level bureau. "Though our police strength is insufficient, we can call in the National Army. Round up and detain all the various dou dens inside and outside the city..."
"No. Our current task is not to eliminate the Guandi Temple network." Lin Baiguang had initially felt the urge as well, but by now he had cooled down. "The Guandi Temple outfit looks formidable, but they have no economic agenda and no political ambitions. They're just a gang of lumpen-proletariat thugs for hire. Letting them hop around a few more days won't affect the bigger picture. If we round them up now, we inherit the burden of tens of thousands of people. The able-bodied beggars can be sent to labor-reform, sure, but there are also masses of elderly, sick, and disabled who'll need to be settled."
Settling those unfortunates meant not only feeding and clothing them for a long time but also—if they were ever to become self-supporting—establishing pauper workshops, rehabilitation farms, and the like, staffed with managers and caretakers. For the brand-new, cash-strapped, personnel-short Guangzhou Municipal Government, that was a crushing burden.
"But if we don't clean them out, Guangzhou's public order will never fundamentally improve," Mu Min said. "Among all public-order violations and petty criminal cases in the city, the Guandi Temple network is implicated more often than anyone else. Pickpocketing, fencing stolen goods, human trafficking, grave-robbing... almost everything traces back to them."
"So we'll crack down hard this time—give the Guandi Temple people a warning. Tell them to behave." Lin Baiguang said. "First, we deal with the ya brokers."
When it came down to it, a few dead grain merchants didn't hurt the Senatorial Council's rule. On the contrary, it handed them a perfect pretext to discipline the ya firms.
Notorious as the ya firms were, for the moment there was no hard evidence of crimes that could be used against them. Now they had obligingly delivered a legitimate charge.
A severe crackdown on the ya served multiple purposes: not only did they monopolize the grain trade, posing a potential threat to the upcoming currency issue, but it would also send a warning to every faction in the city—don't overstep, and don't resort to violence.
Assaults on guild-halls and merchant brawls like this were nothing new in Guangzhou. Even the Teochew-Swatow merchants now victimized had done similar things themselves. In medieval society, with a weak state apparatus and poor governance, violence was routinely abused. In a major commercial hub like Guangzhou, merchants fought over turf and trade; gentry and wealthy citizens hired thugs for personal feuds or lawsuits. Besides the Guandi Temple network, the boat-people on the Pearl River and the Teochew-Swatow and Hakka factions in the city all participated extensively in such violence—just like the rampant fighting-gangs of Jiangnan. And because these local brawls were tangled up with regional rivalries unique to Guangdong, they tended to be especially fierce.
"This time we go heavy and harsh. Heads will roll. Let them understand what it means to live under rule of law," Lin Baiguang said.
Mu Min was about to speak when a messenger arrived: "Director Lin, Chief Mu—someone has come to the Municipal Government to turn himself in. He claims to be the mastermind behind today's attack on the Haiyang Guild Hall."
"Turn himself in?" Mu Min was taken aback.
Lin Baiguang nodded. "I see. Transfer the man to the Municipal Police Bureau."
"Old Lin, what's going on?"
"This is the fall-guy." Lin Baiguang smiled drily. "I'd say you needn't even bother interrogating him. He's bought and paid for. You can beat him or kill him—your call. You won't get a word of truth. He doesn't know anything anyway."
Mu Min understood. She returned to the Municipal Police Bureau, where the retained jail-chief immediately came to complain: "We've arrested so many people the cells can't hold them all"... "They're banging on the doors demanding food; if they don't get it, they defecate and urinate everywhere"... "I don't know what to do."
The Municipal Police Bureau had formerly been the Lingnan Circuit Yamen; unlike prefectural or county offices, it had no prison. They'd improvised a temporary holding area in an empty courtyard. Because they couldn't recruit anyone willing to work as jailers, and Lingao itself lacked professional detention staff, they'd kept a few old jail-heads and turnkeys on, with White Horse Squad soldiers guarding the perimeter.
"...These beggars own nothing at all. Once they're in jail, at least they get watery gruel for free. Arresting them is a waste." The jail-chief prattled on, glancing at Mu Min's expression. "...With so many crammed in there in the heat, disease will spread. Please, Chief, decide what to do with them quickly..."
Mu Min smiled. "The Senatorial Council owns the four seas. A few bowls of gruel—what's that? As for defecating and urinating, whatever mess they make, they clean up. I've heard you used to be called 'Living Yama'; your Nanhai County jail was 'the Eighteen Hells.' What, you can't handle a few imps?"
In the past, officials rarely arrested beggars: jail-keepers couldn't squeeze any oil from them, and it was nothing but trouble. Now, over forty beggars in a single haul—the jail-chief thought the Australians were meddling.
He'd hoped to talk Mu Min into releasing them quickly. Instead, at his first words, he hit a wall. Her tone implied: if you can't control them, don't expect to keep your job.
He hastily said with a smile, "Chief! You jest—I don't deserve such praise. I'll go put them in order right away!"
But Mu Min didn't dismiss him. She called a corporal: "Take a few men and go with the jailer to restore order. Use any means necessary. Make the prisoners keep quiet and clean up the mess."
The jail-chief returned to the holding area. Originally a courtyard of the yamen, the central hall had been repurposed as an office; the side-rooms were fitted with bars as makeshift cells. Naturally, they couldn't hold over forty people, so the prisoners were scattered in the open yard. By regulation, they should all have been squatting with hands on heads; instead, they stood and cursed, while the ground was a river of filth. A few turnkeys on the porch waved iron rulers and shouted threats.
The jail-chief mounted the porch, hands on hips, and bellowed, "Ladies and gentlemen! This is the Guangzhou Prefecture jail. As they say, 'the law is a furnace'..."
Before he could finish, a roar of jeers drowned him out, a hail of obscenities flying his way. The jail-chief might be called "Living Yama," but that was for ordinary prisoners. He didn't have the nerve to tangle with the Guandi Temple crowd. Short on confidence, his voice lacked authority.
Terrified of losing his job, he yelled at the top of his lungs, face red and veins bulging—when suddenly a dark mass flew out of the crowd. The jail-chief saw it clearly and leaped aside. The thing smashed on the ground and splattered, reeking—a lump of feces. Filth sprayed the jail-chief and turnkeys alike. Laughter erupted from the yard.
Humiliated and furious, the jail-chief watched as the corporal leaped off the porch, raised his rifle, and drove the bayonet straight into the nearest beggar—the one laughing loudest.
The blade slid in like a knife through tofu. The beggar didn't even grunt before he collapsed. Before the rest could react, the soldiers behind the corporal also jumped down, bayonets gleaming in the sunlight. The yard exploded into chaos as prisoners scattered like a startled flock.
"Squat! Hands on heads!" At the corporal's shout, the raucous yard fell deathly silent. The beggars who, moments before, had sneered at having heaven as their blanket, earth as their bed, and not even the emperor to fear—now crouched obediently, hands clasped over their skulls, not daring to move.
The jail-chief watched, heart pounding. The Australians killed as casually as butchering chickens and ducks—swift, decisive, and the situation was under control in an instant. Fear and respect surged through him. Afraid the corporal would report back and get him fired for incompetence, he hastily shouted, "Which son-of-a-bitch just threw shit at me? Get out here!"
The prisoners scrambled aside, leaving one man alone in the center—kneeling nervously, rags smeared with filth.
The jail-chief cursed, "You bastard—I'll make you eat that shit right back!"
He was still cursing when the corporal pushed through the crowd, kicked the prisoner flat, raised his rifle, and finished him with a thrust of the bayonet.
"Report, Chief. Order restored." The corporal reported. "Two rioters killed during the action. No casualties on our side."
"At ease!" Mu Min nodded. "Well done. Dismissed!" She turned to the pale, slightly dizzy jail-chief. "Have the kitchen prepare gruel—mostly water, just enough rice to keep them alive. Supervise the distribution, one bowl per prisoner."
The jail-chief acknowledged and hurried off. Mu Min ordered the self-confessed men brought to the interrogation room; she would question them personally.
That people had turned themselves in so quickly after the incident—though obviously fall-guys—puzzled her. Why were the masterminds in such a rush to send proxies? She still had limited understanding of the devious tricks endemic to this great medieval commercial city, and limited insight into the mores of this era.
The interrogation room had been set up in the former reception hall, partitioned and refurbished to old-timeline standards.
Mu Min had already reviewed the preliminary records. Six people had turned themselves in; the ringleader claimed to be a rice merchant.
"Bring this 'rice merchant' first," Mu Min said.
The prisoner was soon led in—an old man, hair already gray, dressed in a brand-new Taoist-style robe. He was about to kneel, but was guided to a chair and shackled hand and foot. His face showed a strange, uneasy expression. Then, seeing that the official before him was a woman, he looked openly astonished.
"What's your name?"
"R-Reporting, Your Honor—Qiu Kesheng."
"How old?"
"Fifty-five."
Mu Min thought he looked older. She asked, "Why have you turned yourself in?"
(End of Chapter)