Arrears

The work for the Zheng family did not last long. On the eighth day of the fourth month, Shao Shuyi, who had just finished a full month, was “out of work,” and had no choice but to collect a stack of Zhongtong chao and return home. His home was in Zhangjing south of the city, not far from the Sea Transport Granary. Although it lay outside the city, the location was not bad—for Taicang, which did not even have city walls, the distinction between inside and outside the city was a false proposition to begin with. The three mud-brick rooms were the main inheritance left to him by his deceased parents. The central room served as a hall. The west room had a grain bin, now empty; the rest was piled with tools and odds and ends, mostly equipment for building and repairing ships, rusted and unusable. The east room was a bedroom with an old bed, a few broken pieces of furniture. It could not be called completely bare, but it was close. Beyond the three main rooms, the front yard enclosed with branches held two small wooden huts and a shed. The huts stood side by side on the west: one was a kitchen with an earthen stove, water vat, pots, bowls, and the like; the other stored farm tools, seeds, and other things. The shed was on the east side, built against the yard wall and woven from reeds. It had originally been a sheep pen; now that there were no sheep, it stored firewood and straw. Inside the yard were a well, several fruit trees, and a few vegetable plots; the disorder carried traces of daily life. Behind the main house was another small yard extending to the edge of a ditch, where more than twenty Chinese firs stood tall and straight—the standard feature of a boatbuilding household. In short, it was a poor household, but not one entirely unable to survive. Yet its ability to withstand risk was extremely poor; at the slightest disturbance, it could easily fall into desperation. After returning home, Shao Shuyi first checked the grain bin. Only a last bit of rice remained in the corner. He scraped it out, washed it at the well, picked a handful of greens from the vegetable plot, and cooked a pot of vegetable porridge. Shortly after finishing, Shao Shuyi, who was counting baochao in the central hall, heard shouting outside the yard. He hurriedly put the money away and went out, only to see Chen Wang, the zhushou, coming with several people, one of whom was Kong Tie. Kong Tie glanced at Shao Shuyi as if about to speak, then hesitated. Chen Wang looked around, then fixed his eyes on Shao Shuyi. Straightening his back out of habit, he said, “Xiaohu, I watched you grow up. After your parents passed away, I should have taken more care of you, but—” The words were unclear, but Shao Shuyi instinctively felt it was not good news. The dynasty’s grassroots administration below the county used the yu-fang and xiang-du system: cities were governed under the yu-fang system, rural areas under the xiang-du system. The head of each township was the lizheng. Below the township, each du was headed by a zhushou. Chen Wang was the zhushou of Dong’er du in Zhangjing. His duties were to “assist the lizheng in urging the payment of levies and taxes and to prohibit wrongdoing”—in plain terms, to help the lizheng collect taxes and incidentally maintain local order. A visit today probably meant nothing good. Sure enough, after those first words, Chen Wang continued, “Xiaohu, although the xingsheng and the Transport Office have exempted this year’s miscellaneous corvée duties, the kechai cannot be reduced. Your household has been in arrears for a long time. You see...” Shao Shuyi understood: so it was unpaid taxes. He steadied himself and asked, “What is kechai?” Chen Wang was taken aback, then softened his voice and explained, “The taxes the dynasty takes from Jiangnan are called the summer tax and the autumn tax. These imitate the Tang dynasty’s two-tax system...” Shao Shuyi listened patiently and gradually understood. The so-called kechai meant levies imposed and apportioned by household; even he, as a sea boat household, had to pay it. So after hearing him out, he asked bluntly, “How much is required?” Chen Wang paused, then said, “In the third year of Zhiyuan (1337), the Boat Household Supervisory Office—” “How much?” Shao Shuyi asked again. “The kechai for boat households: those with ships of one thousand liao or more pay six ding a year; below that, the amount decreases—” “How much, exactly?” “Two ding.” Before Shao Shuyi could speak, Kong Tie, who had been silent until then, raised his head and said, “Only one person is left in the Shao family, and he is a lower-tier household. Does he still have to pay this much?” Chen Wang hesitated, then said, “Fifty guan is required, at the very least.” Shao Shuyi was speechless. So taxes could be haggled over. Truly worthy of the Great Yuan! Suddenly he noticed that Chen Wang was wearing a blue-gray hemp robe, washed pale, with patches of the same color at the elbows and cuffs. His eyes were full of weariness, and his temples were graying. This was a middle-aged man whose life was far from easy and who was utterly exhausted. Shao Shuyi had vaguely heard before that many lizheng and zhushou posts in the villages and townships were vacant, and many people did not want them. At the time he had not understood; now he understood. Several decades ago, those who served as lizheng, zhushou, yuzheng, fangzheng, and other duties were generally wealthy households and powerful local men; at the very least, they were upper households with influence in the locality. They could use their positions to control local affairs and prey on the people. But by now, the taxes apportioned by the court had grown heavier, the common people poorer, and officials still sought to profit from it. The lizheng and zhushou not only had nothing to gain; they might even have to cover shortfalls out of their own pockets. Thus the wealthy and powerful no longer wanted to serve these roles and tried every way to avoid them. The Yuan court was sly; knowing there was little to squeeze from the common people, it sternly rebuked local wealthy households and forcibly required them to take turns serving as lizheng, zhushou, and other posts to keep the tax system running. In practice, however, wealthy households and powerful men would bribe officials to escape, and in the end it was usually the upper households of the township who were pushed into the role to preside over tax collection. Chen Wang was actually a scholar and had once possessed a modest family fortune. But after serving as zhushou for more than half a year, he had somehow fallen into such shabby straits; clearly he had lost a great deal of money making up for deficits. Shao Shuyi suddenly felt a little sorry for him. But then again, if he pitied Chen Wang, who would pity him? He sighed and said, “I only have five guan in paper money. There is no more.” Chen Wang sighed too. The facts were clear: the Shao family had emptied its savings on funerals and had not even a boat left, so there should not have been much kechai to collect. The remaining fifteen-year-old youth could barely keep himself alive, let alone pay taxes. If he were pushed too hard, he might flee tonight, and then not a single coin would be collected. Or he might run straight to a powerful household—such as the Zheng family—sell himself into bondage as a bondsman. It would be hard, but at least he could keep body and soul together and would not be driven to death by the kechai. Thinking of this, Chen Wang gave Shao Shuyi a deep look and said nothing more. Shao Shuyi bowed to him, turned back into the house, fetched five guan of Zhongtong chao, and handed it over. “Sorry to trouble you, Zhushou.” Chen Wang took it silently, his eyes even more weary. Still, he sighed and said, “The court is pressing hard for taxes, and this time it means business. If the arrears are not paid in full before the end of the month, the authorities will certainly arrest someone. Also, last year was hit by disaster, and grain prices shot up to thirty guan. The xingsheng and the censorate have decided to open the charity granary and sell grain at a fair price. It begins today at noon and will last three days.” Shao Shuyi felt a chill, but thanked him aloud and looked at Kong Tie. Kong Tie nodded at him and said, “Xiaohu, when the spring shipping season begins, I plan to go to sea.” “With whom?” Shao Shuyi asked. “The Ye family.” “Doing what?” “Storehouse duty.” “Does the Transport Office allow boat households to carry weapons now?” “We’ll just sneak them along,” Kong Tie answered. “The roads are not safe, and there are many sea pirates. It will be hard without weapons.” “Take care,” Shao Shuyi said. Kong Tie glanced at him and suddenly said, “Actually, there is still an opening for a boatman. If you are willing to go—” Shao Shuyi instinctively wanted to refuse, but swallowed the words at the tip of his tongue and said, “Let me think about it.” While the two were talking, Chen Wang had already left the yard and was walking along the dirt road like a wandering ghost. To be a tax collector reduced to such a state—that was probably unique. Since ancient times, in every dynasty, which tax collectors were not synonymous with wolves and tigers? But the Great Yuan was the exception. There were countless wealthy households ruined to the point of broken families and death; if one said it aloud, no one would believe it. Yet the Mongol-Yuan nobles in Dadu knew exactly who had money and who did not, and they fixed their eyes on local wealthy households to fleece them, forcing them into service. In truth, everyone had it hard. For sea boat households, although they had no tax grain, they had kechai, miscellaneous corvée duties, and all sorts of other taxes. Going to sea to transport grain was unprofitable, even a losing business, yet there was no way out: one had to risk one’s life battling wind and waves on the sea, with slim chances of survival and immense hardship. Who, in the end, was responsible for all this?