Chapter 1781 - On Patrol

Li Ziyu sauntered down the street, boredom settling over him like spring mist. A fine day for visiting friends or lounging in his study, debating philosophy until the candles burned low. Instead, here he was, wandering the streets in stinking shoes, performing work both tedious and trivial. His uncle had once told him: "Those who serve are not free; those who are free do not serve." Li Ziyu was beginning to understand just how bitter that truth could be.

Service under the Australians was particularly demanding—a lesson the past few days had driven home with merciless clarity.

Being a patrolman meant wandering the streets from dawn to midnight, regardless of weather. Fair skies made it tolerable, but rain transformed the job into pure misery. The bureau issued bamboo hats and straw raincoats; you changed into wooden-soled hemp sandals and hit the streets just the same. In the old days, even the yamen's "Fast Band" runners wouldn't have stood by the bridge in such weather, let alone common laborers.

Li Ziyu thought back to his days "serving" under the Ming. Even for military households in the Wei-Suo system, actual drills were rare throughout the year. Roll calls happened only on paydays—and since pay had been overdue for as long as anyone could remember, those too had become scarce. His uncle, a minor officer, spent most of his time using Wei-Suo soldiers as domestic labor. "Proper service" rarely exceeded a month per year. When the Australians had attacked Guangzhou, the Wei-Suo had suddenly tensed, sweeping up every male over fifteen, handing them sticks, and calling them "able-bodied men." Li Ziyu had been sent to the walls along with everyone else, setting off a chorus of wailing from the women—not just his family, but the entire Wei-Suo compound had been a sea of tears. Fortunately, his uncle had quietly swapped him out after just one day.

Now he was doing "proper service" in earnest. Although still in his probationary period, the training wheels had come off—no more naturalized police leading patrols. They had to handle everything themselves. Li Ziyu squinted at the sun, now slanting westward. Early Shen hour, perhaps three in the afternoon. Still a long way until his shift ended at midnight.

Daytime was manageable. After dark, the streets became pitch black, save for the dim lamp at the watchman's hut and the occasional "wind-defying lantern" hung before wealthy homes—pale dots of light floating like ghost-fires in the darkness.

On his first solo patrol, Li Ziyu had trembled with every step. Being paired with Zhao Gui, who looked about as reliable as a broken cart, had done nothing for his nerves. Mercifully, the station had assigned them a residential beat—quiet streets, mostly homes. Public order here was simpler than in the commercial districts. The old Hainan policeman had told them: "On this beat, just watch for people dumping trash or pissing in corners."

Zhao Gui, honest to a fault, had asked: "If there's only shit and trash but no culprit, what do we do? Should we ask the neighbors?"

Li Ziyu glanced back at his partner. Thirty-something, sturdy build, a face so guileless it practically radiated simple-mindedness. His uniform hung on him like an afterthought, rumpled in ways that seemed almost deliberate. Worst of all, Zhao Gui had an unconscious habit of scratching his crotch—during patrol, during case discussions, constantly. Li Ziyu found it mortifying.

By Li Ziyu's estimation, Zhao Gui was intellectually limited. Reportedly a former day-laborer for wealthy households—in Li Ziyu's view, lower than a household slave. At least slaves had guaranteed food and clothes; day-laborers lived hand-to-mouth. How the Australians had recruited this man was beyond comprehension. And he was illiterate to boot.

Illiteracy classified Zhao Gui as a "Class C Cadet" at the police school. With training too short for literacy classes, such men couldn't learn theory systematically. Instead, they learned on the job—basic concept education, physical and drill training, then deployment to stations, paired one-on-one with literate officers.

Since Li Ziyu could read, he had been saddled with Zhao Gui and the task of teaching him literacy. If Zhao Gui failed to earn his Class C diploma by the mid-year assessment, he would lose half his pay, and Li Ziyu would lose a third plus any chance at that year's "excellence" rating. Motivation enough. After every shift, Li Ziyu dragged Ah Gui through character lessons.

The first lesson had been writing his own name. "Ah Gui, your surname is Zhao—the Great Song's imperial surname. Your ancestors had virtue. I'll teach you 'Zhao.' In the new script, it's 'Run' plus an 'X.' Right! Like that action you love so much—walking and scratching your crotch." Ah Gui had nodded, half-understanding, and scratched again.

Li Ziyu looked down on Zhao Gui—he was a scholar, after all, forced to serve alongside such a low-class, impoverished man. But then again: Officials travel a thousand miles only for money. The pay was real. This was a new dynasty, and new dynasties used existing people. Even Fan Kuai had been a dog butcher before becoming a general.

Besides, Zhao Gui had essentially become his servant, taking orders without complaint. Since acquiring him, the Li household had gained a handyman—chopping wood, hauling water, Ah Gui did it all. Seeing he was diligent and lived alone in a temple, Li Ziyu's parents had rented him a side room.

They walked slowly. Each patrol required passing every check-in point at least eight times—roughly once an hour. No need to rush. The work was straightforward: question suspicious persons, verify road signs and door plates, ensure shops displayed licenses and hygiene permits, forbid goods or trash blocking the streets, check that garbage piles and manure jars were covered. Important management tasks, tedious as they were.

Most residents here were middle-class, with a few wealthy households mixed in. The streets were better maintained than in the poor alleys—gravel-paved, less trash and sewage. Being residential, foot traffic was light: women washing vegetables or minding children, the occasional servant running errands. No "suspicious characters" in sight.

A key task was knowing the residents. Pan Jiexin demanded every precinct patrolman know every household on his beat like the back of his hand.

"Only when you know precisely how many people—old and young, male and female—live in every house can you spot a stranger at a glance," he had emphasized. Basic population intelligence.

"Sister-in-law Liu, washing rice?" Li Ziyu greeted a woman squatting by the public well, scrubbing a basin of clothes.

"Oh, the officers!" Sister-in-law Liu wiped her hands on her apron. Plain-featured, but her smile was warm. "Saw you out in the rain the other day. You work hard."

She was one of the "outgoing" women on their beat—thirty-something, capable and brisk. Her husband worked as a pharmacy clerk; she supplemented their income by acting as a house broker, matching buyers and sellers of property. Though unlicensed, she had been connecting people in the neighborhood for years.

Glib and well-connected, she had become an "activist" valued by the police. The naturalized instructor had told Li Ziyu to contact her often.

When Li Ziyu first arrived at the station, the Tithing Group Head had led him to every house on his route, making introductions and mapping out the territory—a fundamental "Mass Prevention and Cure" method developed by Mu Min.

Most commoners feared runners like they feared tigers. The new police, to them, were essentially Australian runners in different clothes. So the first priority was building rapport. Using Tithing Heads to make introductions helped establish familiarity.

"Don't speak deliberately—especially avoid 'official jargon,'" the naturalized policeman had advised. "Chat about daily life. Relaxed people reveal useful information. Casual gossip can bring important leads. You and Zhao Gui have only four eyes and work a few hours. Turn the masses into your eyes and ears."

"Oh, no, it's nothing special," Li Ziyu replied, slipping easily into the new slogans. "It's all serving the Senatorial Council and the People." But he knew worldly ways; after the high-minded rhetoric, he added: "Eating grain, doing service. Since we took the job, we must be worthy of the pay—right, Sister-in-law Liu?"

Honest words. Sister-in-law Liu, a shrewd woman, found herself warming to this handsome young man who spoke without official airs. "Yes, yes. Since you came, it's much more peaceful. Before, I had to lock the courtyard gate just to dump trash."

In the city, a specific class of petty thief existed—known in the slang as "Handful of Cash." These were opportunists lacking any real skill. They waited for common households to leave doors unguarded, darting in to snatch whatever was at hand. If nothing valuable presented itself, a broom or a hat would suffice. Low value, but a genuine loss for the victims. These were typical "small/micro cases" in public order: minimal monetary value, outsized emotional impact on residents.

(End of Chapter)