Chapter 2086 - A Memoir of Liberation (Part 3)

After roll call, I went with my fellow conscripts to the armory to draw armor and weapons. "Armor"—the iron scales were rusted beyond recognition, the fabric lining completely rotted away. The slightest force tore it to pieces. Weapons? I received a long spear, its point so corroded it had gone dull. On any battlefield, it probably couldn't kill an enemy—the shaft would snap first.

The serviceable armor and weapons had long since been distributed by officers to their own household retainers and bodyguards. To them, we common soldiers were merely expendable cannon fodder, servants accompanying the army. Looking the part sufficed.

I was incensed and argued with the warehouse keeper—this junk wouldn't even fetch scrap value, yet we were expected to fight with it? The keeper replied with disdain: "This is what there is. Take it or leave it. Want better? Have your family procure your own!" What manner of talk was that? In the Fubo Army, any logistics officer who attempted such treatment would face court-martial and execution.

That reminded me of Uncle Jizai's frequent refrain: "What does your court have to compare with the Council of Elders?" Indeed—what could they compare? These soldiers who couldn't even maintain proper formation? These corrupt, degenerate officers? These weapons that couldn't kill a rat? Pathetic yet hateful: knowing they couldn't match the Fubo Army, the false Ming authorities spread wild rumors to slander the Council and the Army, hoping to stir terror and bind the people to their doomed war chariot. They claimed the Fubo Army won battles through sorcery and therefore kidnapped boys and girls to sacrifice to evil gods. They declared the Australians were sexually depraved and abducted virtuous women for unspeakable acts. All of Zhaoqing descended into panic. Even worse, rumors circulated that Fubo Army guns and cannons were forged with dark magic, and that if women and girls stood at the front lines, dropped their trousers, and exposed their genitals toward the Fubo Army, the weapons would explode spontaneously. They called this the "Yin Gate Array." Utterly preposterous! Firearms owe their power to the Council's superior steel, comprehensive manufacturing processes, correct gunpowder ratios, and rigorously trained soldiers—not to feudal superstitions that insult our sisters and daughters. Yet this nonsense, which any modern elementary student would ridicule, found eager audience among Zhaoqing's populace and officialdom. Markets panicked, especially when the government requisitioned women's menstrual cloths and chamber pots. Many women, fearing they'd be conscripted for the "Yin Gate Array," hid at home like cloistered ladies, not daring to venture outside. For a time, women vanished from the streets entirely.

Once we became soldiers, the officers proclaimed each of us would receive one tael of silver as a "family settling allowance"—essentially blood money. But we never saw a copper. Only after Zhaoqing's liberation, during the public trials, did we discover that Xiong Wenchan had actually distributed the funds, but officers at every level had embezzled them completely. Public outrage erupted like a volcano. The relatives of soldiers killed in the outer defense perimeter—widows and mothers—stormed the platform in tears, clutching spirit tablets, and literally bit the embezzlers to death, drinking their blood in vengeance. The scene was shocking beyond description. I never received my settling allowance, but I didn't care. My sole thought was survival. The instant the Fubo Army arrived, I'd surrender—no way would I perish for the false Ming.

After enlistment, we received worthless equipment. There was no physical training, no tactical coordination—just running about following officers' arbitrary orders: guarding gates one moment, hauling supplies the next, patrolling streets after that. Those were at least nominally military duties, barely tolerable. What infuriated me beyond measure was being compelled to pack up high officials' households for evacuation! Rolling up baggage so they could board boats and flee to Wuzhou!

The Fubo Army wasn't even visible on the horizon, yet these officials were already orchestrating their escape. Remember, when Wang Zunde marched on Lingao, the Council's leaders—even civilian staff—had prepared to fight to the last man!

Large bundles, small baggage—we even hauled their tables and chairs onto the boats. The naval ships, instead of engaging the enemy, were ferrying the masters' concubines, principal wives, young masters, young ladies, gold, and silver to Wuzhou—one boatload after another, along with forcibly requisitioned civilian vessels. We soldiers toiled like pack animals, enduring abuse from their stewards. Some who accidentally damaged goods were beaten half to death. We weren't the court's soldiers—we were merely these officers' chattels!

To facilitate the masters' evacuation, we were ordered to intercept civilian vessels at the docks and along the river. A single "nail-seal" requisition slip, and we'd seize a commoner's boat. No matter how they wept and pleaded—hearts of stone. Any further complaints meant being cut down on the spot, their heads displayed as warnings against "enemy spies."

Later, we were dispatched to villages to conscript laborers—not for combat, but because heavily loaded boats couldn't make headway upstream without trackers hauling towlines. These laborers were to pull the masters' boats upriver.

This was originally the responsibility of the Zhaoqing Prefect and Gaoyao County Magistrate, but their superiors complained they weren't conscripting sufficient numbers and sent garrison troops to handle it instead. Initially, we still had the baojia headmen issue calls for one able man per household or conduct lotteries. Officers could also extract some bribes on the side. But as villagers learned to flee at our approach, we couldn't fill quotas anymore. We abandoned the pretense of working through headmen—just seized any male we encountered, from sixty-year-olds down to sixteen-year-olds. Those who resisted were executed on fabricated charges of "collaborating with the pirates." Some thugs exploited the chaos to rape and plunder; entire villages descended into pandemonium. Eventually, fortified villages refused to open their gates at all, even firing fowling pieces and crude cannons at us. Once they even killed a zongqi—dead and never investigated.

The chaos of that era beggars imagination for people today. Let me describe one incident that seared itself into my memory.

After Guangzhou Prefecture was liberated, numerous refugees flooded up the West River from the Pearl River Delta—mostly officials, gentry, and wealthy merchants, but also common folk of modest means who believed the malicious rumors. All traveled with families and valuables, hoping Zhaoqing, the Governor-General's seat, would prove safer. Many of the hired water-fighters had been river pirates. They colluded with naval thugs to intercept boats fleeing from the Sanshui area within Antelope Gorge. After looting and raping, they massacred everyone—even women and children. I saw with my own eyes a thug returning from such a raid, proudly displaying a fistful of gold and silver jewelry—among them several children's longevity locks, still sticky with blood.

Such atrocities—the wholesale slaughter of women and children—actually aroused "envy" among my fellow soldiers. Many who'd farmed honestly their entire lives were lured onto the path of robbery and murder. Several of my childhood playmates thus became military bandits and walked a road of no return. In the end, they forfeited their lives and brought their families under suspicion as bandit relatives. The old society didn't merely devour lives—it devoured conscience itself.

These dark, chaotic days became unbearable. I yearned ever more desperately for the Fubo Army to arrive, counting the days, wishing they'd strike Zhaoqing like lightning tomorrow and catch all those vermin in one sweep.

The darkness before dawn is always brief. Little more than a month after Guangzhou's liberation, on April 2 by the new calendar, Uncle Jizai secretly conveyed the joyous news: the Fubo Army was about to attack Zhaoqing! He told me to prepare—"Whatever you do, don't die for these people." I replied: "Don't worry, Uncle. I remember everything. When they order me to charge, I'll advance slowly. Once the government troops collapse and the Fubo Army arrives, I'll drop my weapon and surrender immediately." Seeing that I'd absorbed his instructions, he nodded with relief and hurried off on his own business. I quickly found my comrades who'd enlisted alongside me, and we clarified the surrender plan. They unanimously agreed we mustn't die for the false Ming—when the moment came, they'd follow my lead. All they wanted was to return home alive. Honestly, whether under the false Ming or the Fubo Army, I was a soldier. As a soldier, surrendering without a fight is undeniably the deepest shame—no amount of rationalization changes that. But I've never regretted my determination to surrender at that time. What I will say from self-reflection is this: after I joined the Fubo Army, I never retreated a single step on the battlefield.

(End of Chapter)