Chapter Sixty-Three: The Purpose

In the days that followed, the people of Yan’an Prefecture lived as though it were New Year’s. News of the gallant outlaws spread quickly among the refugees—word had it that at night, bands of riders would sweep through, tossing sacks of grain into the courtyards of the poor. If they had burlap sacks, they used those; if not, they bundled the grain in rags, and when even rags ran short, they simply scattered the grain about, as one might feed chickens.

Awakened by the commotion, the townsfolk would ask who their benefactors were. Some said their leader was called the Tiger General. But who the Tiger General was, no one knew; what great deeds he had accomplished, no one could tell. All they knew was that he sent men to feed the poor, warned the wealthy and powerful, and demanded that they treat the people better.

From village to village, the rumor raced, carried by beggars wandering from home, until it swept across Fushi, Ansai, and Ganquan Counties, and even further beyond.

In Yan’an Prefecture itself, Magistrate Zhang Nian received, within three days, two letters signed by the Tiger General. The first, found in a cave northwest in Fushi County, announced a large stash of grain awaiting his collection, with instructions to continue disaster relief in Yan’an. Before this grain had even been fully accounted for, another letter arrived—again from the Tiger General, though in a different hand—directing him to a cave in Ansai County for more grain. The instructions were the same: distribute the provisions for relief, but with a stern warning—if a letter could be slipped into the magistrate’s office, then so could a thief into his very chambers. Let there be no embezzlement, or the magistrate would be replaced.

This left Zhang Nian alarmed, exasperated, and yet delighted. Delighted, for the government’s dwindling stores had found an unexpected savior—these two shipments far exceeding what he could have scraped together by selling his own robes and honors.

Within a short time, order was restored around the city of Yan’an. The number of vagrants on the roads dwindled, and the gangs that once beset the wealthy in broad daylight vanished. Highway robberies still occurred on occasion, for even in peaceful times, such things could not be wholly avoided.

The common folk of Yan’an longed to know the Tiger General’s true identity. Those who could now eke out a living wished to see him, to offer thanks for the life-saving grain. Those who could not survive yearned even more fervently for a glimpse, thinking perhaps they might join his ranks, tend his horses, and at least secure a meager meal.

The authorities, too, were desperate to uncover the Tiger General’s identity—especially the source of his vast supplies of grain.

Because of this mysterious name, Magistrate Zhang Nian summoned Xiao Guandou, the deputy commander who had been in mourning for his grandfather. He tried to discern any clues in their conversation, but though Xiao came from a long line of military men, he bore not a trace of a tiger’s fierce spirit.

All of Yan’an was searching for the Tiger General. Yet no one guessed what he was truly up to.

In fact, Master Liu had known for some time that his two sons, his brother-in-law, and Cao Yao were up to something in Heilong Mountain.

Once a man takes the path of a thief, there is no turning back. Yet Liu did not intervene.

Again and again, his younger son tried to persuade him, and Liu Xiangyu remained firm—even as the world darkened by the day, he believed he could hold fast and refrain from pushing a collapsing world over the brink.

But that was a private conviction. If he were truly forced to drop his pride, he could always find work to feed his family, but not the whole clan; if the clan tried to hold out, they would simply starve.

Even if the clan turned thief, without his own talented son to lead them, their fate would be to die nameless in some ditch.

A father always believes his sons are destined for greatness.

The day Liu Chengzong went out to scout, Liu Xiangyu himself slipped out as well, mingling with the villagers headed off to raid the wealthy.

It is said that seeing is believing, and so Master Liu resolved to witness with his own eyes the state of the world in this season of calamity.

His aim was no longer to seek a different path, nor to see whether starving refugees could survive by following the rules. He wanted to see the condition of the poorest, to gauge whether the court still held any place in the hearts of the suffering people.

Yet he had barely gone a hundred paces out of Heilong Mountain before he found the poorest soul imaginable—though that unfortunate could offer no opinion of the court, having been dead two days already, half-buried in yellow earth, like a peeled tree trunk.

Villagers said the man had hanged himself, having wandered here from somewhere else and, unable to go on, ended his life. There had once been a tree here, and the man had worn clothing; now both tree and clothes were gone.

Passersby, unwilling to leave a corpse exposed, thought to dig a grave, but hunger had left them too weak for such labor; even if they had the strength, they had to save it for the search for food. All they could do was heap an extra layer of earth over him as they passed.

It was not only the people of Heilong Mountain who did this; even the starving refugees bound for robbery would pause to add soil. In another two days, perhaps, he would be fully buried.

Liu Xiangyu’s luck was poor—the wealthy homes nearby had already been plundered by the people. He walked with the group for seventy or eighty li, setting out from Heilong Mountain toward the prefectural city, then took a different route home halfway there.

What he saw was that the closer to the city, the worse the lawlessness, the more corpses lined the roads. Yet he suspected the reverse was true as well. The band stretching ten to forty li from the city was likely the most chaotic of all.

This journey taught Liu Xiangyu much. He became convinced that the court’s armies marching through Yan’an Prefecture could not be properly supplied; that the government’s decrees there would go unheeded. The Ming court’s control over Shaanxi’s Yan’an Prefecture was at an unprecedented low.

Yet even after this investigation, Liu Xiangyu still did not support his sons’ turn to banditry. He feared his son would come to see thievery—a desperate measure in this drought—as his true calling.

Banditry should be a means, not an end.

It had been years since he’d last quarreled with his sons. While the two boys and his brother-in-law were out, Liu Xiangyu stayed home, rolling up his sleeves and pondering how best to chastise them upon their return. He also took the opportunity to rally the clan for a thorough cleaning of the unused cave dwellings.

His sons had gone out to rob the wealthy—surely they would not return empty-handed? And if they did, there would be no need for scolding, for it would mean this life of banditry was ill-suited to them.

He had even thought ahead to how he would one day gather intelligence on the movements of the Yan’an garrison.

The one thing he had not considered was the problem of where to store all the grain they might bring back.

That night, just as he lay down to sleep, he was roused by the shouts of the villagers. Throwing on his clothes, he hurried outside to see everyone running wildly toward the edge of the mountain.

The wagons that had been sent out were returning, one after another, piled high with grain. He heard Guo Zhaji shouting for each household to bring winnowing baskets and shovels to hide the tracks before dawn.

No one spoke to him—only Little Whirlwind bounded around him on long legs, occasionally lifting his head to bark.

Men and women, young and old, all of Heilong Mountain’s people ran like the wind.

A smile crept onto Master Liu’s face. His two sons knew they’d done wrong and were avoiding him.

He gazed at the heaps—over four hundred shi of grain, enough for Heilong Mountain to last until July.

He figured his sons had had a hard time of it, must have robbed a major landowner. Raiding one of those earthen-walled compounds was no easy feat.

Who could have guessed that the people, still brimming with excitement, would unload wagon after wagon without a word, then spin the wheels and vanish into the night at the mountain pass.

Half an hour later, another convoy returned, this time not just with wagons but dozens of oxen, mules, and donkeys, all laden with grain. Even the young men carried heavy loads on their backs.

Soon, the village entrance was piled high with grain, but the convoys kept coming—trip after trip, again and again.

Mr. Liu’s blood pressure soared past his height, and he could no longer think straight.

Judged solely by their ability to seize grain, he felt the title of “bandit” was already beneath his sons. With such a knack for managing provisions, they could easily put the court’s grain commissioner out of a job.

If they did not work for the court… Liu Xiangyu stroked his beard and shook his head.

The Ming dynasty was in peril!