Xie Jia was, in truth, a thoroughgoing schemer who played at being a man of principle. Pei Shaohuai knew there was no point in speaking further with him.
He turned to leave.
“If given the chance, who would not wish to speak for the people and be a saint? Who would not wish to see the whole world prosper? But in this world, not everyone can be like Pei Prefect, sailing here on a great ship with the wind at his back.” Xie Jia was still trying.
Persuading Pei Shaohuai seemed to be a task assigned to him.
Pei Shaohuai stopped walking but did not turn back. Once more he made his position clear and replied: “Do you not know that there are those who, dwelling in a thatched hut, still long for great mansions to shelter the cold scholars of the world? That there are those who lie sick in bed, yet still wish for all living beings to be fed and full? Do you not know — ‘Though this body dies, the spirit shall live on in glory.’ ‘Humble though my station, I never dare forget my country’s burden…’ To have the heart to serve the people — what need is there for a great ship?” His figure, seen from behind, stood as upright as a young pine.
This land had never lacked great-hearted patriots and scholars who surpassed their age, who, cycle after cycle, tended the slow work of farming — and it was precisely from those fields that the ideal of all-under-heaven as a shared commons had been nurtured and grown.
“Pei Prefect — once you step out of Wangjiang Tower today, do you know what it will mean?”
“Enemy, not ally.”
With that, Pei Shaohuai walked straight out without giving Xie Jia another look.
From the private room behind him came the sound of shattering porcelain and splashing tea hitting the floor — most unbecoming.
When the great ships returned from Quanzhou’s port toward Shuang’an Prefecture, they had traveled halfway when night descended.
The crescent moon hung like a hook; the stars fell into the sea. Tonight Shuang’an Bay was calm and still, and if not for the great ships pushing the waves apart as they went, it would have been impossible to tell in the night whether it was the stars reflected in the sea, or the ships sailing through the sky.
Xie Jia’s words were not without effect on Pei Shaohuai. As he passed through this night sea, the question “are Pei Prefect’s ships truly large enough?” filled his thoughts.
To use the great ship of the emperor’s power to overturn the emperor’s rule — that was a paradox in itself.
A sage ruler in one generation was the fortune of all under heaven, and already rare enough. How could one dare to hope that every generation would produce one? Even under the governance of a wise ruler and able ministers, there would always be times of helplessness, times when nothing could be done.
One could not hope for the ideal — one could only choose.
Could the current emperor be unaware of Fujian’s condition? No, he could not. The emperor had sent Pei Shaohuai south to open the seas, and there was also the sense of “let the young Boyuan go and try it out,” “let him be tempered.” Full of care — success would be merit, failure would also be merit. Either way, a triumphant return to the capital to receive the emperor’s reward.
Was the carefully selected, newly appointed Provincial Administration Commissioner a sycophant, an incompetent? Not necessarily. The emperor had trusted him enough to send him to take charge of Fujian’s provincial administration. The new official’s task was not to break open the situation, but to keep the situation from descending into disorder.
The power of a single person was too feeble. Pei Shaohuai seemed to be picking his way through a narrow crevice with great difficulty, and could only place his hopes in that old saying: “water can carry a boat, and it can also overturn it.”
To carry the unfinished work forward, Pei Shaohuai had reached the moment of making a choice. He did not know who the next wise ruler would be, but he knew it was certainly not the one behind Prefect Xie.
By the time he returned to the residence it was deep in the night. Before even entering the gate, in the dim darkness, Pei Shaohuai noticed a nimble silhouette standing atop the wall next door.
Who else, brazen enough to do such a thing in this place, could it be but our Yan Commander?
Pei Shaohuai lifted his lantern slightly and said to the shadow: “Yan Knight-errant — would it not be better to come down from the wall first, and then we can talk?” He furrowed his brow in exaggerated difficulty: “After all, Pei does not have the skill for wall-climbing himself.” He could not get up — so Yan Commander would simply have to come down.
Yan Chengzhao stepped down in one stride, his robe catching a breath of wind, landing steadily before Pei Shaohuai.
“Having Yan Commander for a neighbor — even the night cats have grown scarce on this street.”
Pei Shaohuai had once heard Yan Chengzhao say that as a young man, unable to sleep at night, he had practiced the art of leaping across rooftops by roaming the streets and alleys in search of cats to “apprehend.” In time, the cats of the capital area, upon catching even the faintest trace of Yan Chengzhao’s presence, would take to their heels.
“Just driving them away — her and the children sleep lightly.” Yan Commander replied, and moved on to the matter at hand. “Today you went to see Xie Jia. Did anything come of it?”
Pei Shaohuai’s expression did not change, but inwardly he thought: as expected. Yan Chengzhao had followed him south with duties that were “many and weighty.” He was, after all, from the Southern Embroidered Uniform Guard — one of the rare members of the Yan clan who had earned the emperor’s deep trust.
On the way back, Pei Shaohuai had already made his choice, and naturally had thought through what to say. So he recounted the day’s conversation faithfully from beginning to end, and then shared his own conjectures: “All of Fujian’s goods pass exclusively through the Quanzhou Maritime Trade Bureau. A single Provincial Administration Commissioner could not consume all of that profit.” Behind the one behind, there was yet another hand at work.
“I understand.” Yan Chengzhao would make careful inquiries.
The matter was grave, and neither of them said more than was necessary for fear of missteps — yet both understood each other perfectly without needing to say so.
The spring night wind was cold; inside the lantern, the candle flame wavered and grew somewhat dim. Pei Shaohuai said: “Once spring is over, it will already be the second year. What has been coming will all come at once. Yan Commander — are you ready?”
Officials, pirates, bandits, and powerful gentry would all deploy their “powers” together. It would take more than human hands to hold them all off.
“The Jiahe Guard is already ready.”
“Then all is well.”
The two men exchanged a brief bow, then turned and each returned to their own residence — one through the door, one over the wall.
The light in the side room was still on. Pei Shaohuai had barely changed out of his outer garment before Yang Shiyue came in carrying a bowl of ginger soup.
“The sea air at night is damp. Drink a bowl of ginger soup to drive out the cold, husband.”
The ginger soup was sharp and warming, and Pei Shaohuai felt his body grow considerably warmer.
When Pei Shaohuai set down the bowl, he noticed that a few children’s primer books were still laid out on the table — most likely little Nan and little Feng had been learning their characters during the day and had forgotten to put them away before bed.
On top was a copy of the Song dynasty “Three Character Classic.” The open page read: “You, young student, ought to set your ambition.” The characters were written especially large, as was suited to helping children learn to recognize them.
Yang Shiyue saw her husband staring at it with a distant look, and explained: “Today Zhengguan asked what ‘ambition’ meant. I did not close this page, thinking to leave it for when you were free to explain it to him.”
A gentleman sets a lasting aspiration — a gentleman’s aspiration ought to be established from childhood, to grow with the aspiration, to act in accordance with it.
When little Nan and little Feng were still in swaddling clothes, Pei Shaohuai had already wondered what kind of aspirations he should guide his children toward.
He had lived two lives, stood on the shoulders of those who came before him, encountered a wise ruler, and had sought to do real things for the people in this age — and even so, it was as treacherous as walking on thin ice, beset with difficulty at every turn.
Little Nan and little Feng were born here, grew up here, and without the knowledge and learning that lived in Pei Shaohuai’s mind, and with him unable to pass on everything he knew in full — to set them on the same path as himself would be far too perilous.
To preserve oneself was what made it possible to realize one’s aspirations.
As a scholar, Pei Shaohuai admired and revered those great-minded men of letters who had surpassed their era. But as a father, he had a measure of selfishness. If it could be chosen, he hoped little Nan and little Feng would not be the cresting wave on the river — which looked magnificent in its surge, but which must ultimately settle and fall.
He hoped they would be a gentle, winding stream — gathering small currents into great rivers, establishing merit for the generations to come.
“What are you thinking, husband?”
Pei Shaohuai came back to himself. What had just been on his mind was something he could not fully tell his wife, so he only smiled and said: “I was just thinking — as long as they hold ‘when the great way prevails, all under heaven is held in common’ in their hearts, whatever aspiration they set will be a good one, and they may follow their own hearts.”
From outside the door there came a soft rustling sound — a night rain arrived at the third watch, and through the window one could sense the cold of late spring. Pei Shaohuai rose and closed the window that had been left slightly ajar. The lines “last night there came wind and rain; how many flowers have fallen?” came to mind, and he quietly reminded his wife: “Late spring and early summer, the weather is prone to change. The days ahead are likely to be unsettled. At home, be sure to take extra care.”
Even with layer upon layer of protection around them, Pei Shaohuai feared there might be some gap or lapse.
“I understand.” Ever since she had followed her husband south, Yang Shiyue had been careful. A trace of worry showed on her face, and she in turn reminded her husband: “You, too, must take care of yourself when you are out.”
She was not afraid her husband was not clever enough. She only feared he did not spare enough thought for himself.
At night, spiders spin their threads; beneath the eaves, new webs are formed.
After the talks at Wangjiang Tower broke down, Xie Jia’s side had already begun to move — it was only that nothing had yet shown itself.
In the third and fourth months, the northeast wind had not yet come and the merchant ships had not yet returned. Taking advantage of this window of quiet, Pei Shaohuai selected a waterway between Tong’an City and Jiahe Island and prepared to build a new port there.
With Jiahe Island blocking the waves ahead and Tong’an City as a solid backing, the area was sheltered all year round, perfectly suited for merchant ships to come in and berth.
The site, however, was still covered in wild grass and piled rocks at this point — an untamed and cluttered stretch. To build a new port there would take considerable manpower.
First, a level clearing would have to be carved out of the shore, and the sea embankment reinforced with rock.
Once news of this had “leaked” somewhat, the three great clans of Shuang’an Prefecture rushed over and took on the work themselves, saying they were willing to pay out of their own funds to hire workers.
Construction began within days.
When Pei Shaohuai came to see the work site, he noticed a considerable number of elderly men among the laborers — men in their fifties and sixties, dressed in hemp garments, hauling stones and tamping earth, the backs of their shirts soaked through.
They had come to work of their own accord, for the modest wages that were not so generous after all.
Pei Shaohuai went over to them. A few of the elderly men set down their hoes and greeted the official lord in the local tongue, respectful but not timid.
The three great clans employing old men was not a bad thing — it was a good thing. In this world, it was not remarkable to see people working in the fields at the age of seventy or eighty, let alone fifty or sixty. The fear was not that work was hard, but that there was no work to be had, and that one became a useless mouth to feed at home.
Not everyone could live out their days in comfort like the wealthy — people who held to the belief that “working is a lifetime, not working is also a lifetime, better to earn a few copper coins when you can” were the common reality of this world.
It was precisely such scenes that made Pei Shaohuai tread carefully and not act rashly.
His mind was indeed full of ideas from a later era, but not everything could be brought out. Things that were untimely or untested, when introduced, would not first benefit a region — they would first destroy the bottommost and most fragile layer of common people.
“My lord, before the south wind comes ashore in the sixth month, all of this land in front of us can be filled and leveled.” Clan elder Qi stepped forward to report, then asked: “My lord, should we also run a road through to the city?”
“Yes.” Pei Shaohuai nodded.
By now, anyone with a clear head could read the signs — this Pei Zhizhou was in favor of opening the sea for trade.
The court had sent him to serve here, and it seemed there was a deliberate purpose behind it.
Yet Pei Shaohuai continued to hold back the imperial edict on opening the sea, instead letting things “leak” out little by little, like a slow itch one cannot scratch, leaving all the sea merchants of the east coast of Fujian in a constant state of asking around, guessing, and speculating — none of them daring to make a firm decision.
Merchants pursue profit and never put all their eggs in one basket. Pei Shaohuai was presently the “weaker” side, and the longer the front was drawn out, the more it worked in his favor.
A letter arrived from the family in the capital. Pei Shaohuai opened it.
In the letter, Pei Shaojin had written an entire page full of worry — memorial after memorial attacking his older brother in court had been coming in like an overwhelming tide.
Some attacked him for carrying the imperial sword south yet dragging his feet on the real work of opening the sea, doing nothing of substance, squandering the Son of Heaven’s regard and expectations. Some attacked him for a court official participating in the incense offerings at a clan of a different surname, forgetting the roots of his own people, forming cliques and factions with local gentry and engaging in conspiracy.
Some had even distorted the battle at Fengwei Gorge, claiming that Pei Shaohuai, a civil official, was scrambling after military credit — proof of impure motives.
No one fears a civil official who is wise, or a military official who is valiant — they only fear the civil official who is both.
If the earlier attacks were minor squabbling, the accusation at the end was one that could not be dismissed.
First, the Fujian Provincial Administration Commissioner submitted a memorial stating that in the east of Fujian, sea bandits occupied islands and called themselves kings with great brazenness, and that among the people, Wang Chu was being called the “Righteous King” and Xu Wu the “Martial King.”
He further stated that through covert investigations, many of these bandits were remnants of the previous dynasty, scheming to sway the people’s hearts and refusing to let go of their wish to restore the former rule — a matter of grave concern.
This memorial brought about a court conference before the emperor. When someone dared to call himself a king before the Son of Heaven, however merciful the emperor might be, how could he endure such a provocation?
Before the court conference had reached a conclusion, the Quanzhou Prefecture sent an urgent memorial impeaching the Shuang’an Prefecture Prefect for colluding with bandits and acting in concert with them — the fact that Pei Shaohuai had privately met with Wang Chu and then cooperated with him was true, and could not be denied.
First “a civil official scrambling for military merit,” then “colluding with bandits” — exaggerated and compounded, turning a great achievement of sinking dozens of enemy ships in an act of defending against Japanese pirates into something they were calling “the heart of a bandit.”
Grand Secretary Zhang, Grand Secretary Xu, and Senior Official Yang all naturally spoke up in counter-attack and spoke in Pei Shaohuai’s defense. But their family connections and teacher-student bonds were attacked by numerous officials as “partiality” and “shielding.”
Impeachment and debate in court was ordinary enough — so long as the Son of Heaven’s trust remained, there was nothing to truly worry about.
What Pei Shaojin worried about was the emperor’s ambiguous response — the emperor had neither pronounced Pei Shaohuai guilty nor ordered a strict investigation, but had kept every memorial, reading each one carefully.
Whenever the matter was discussed in the imperial study, he had avoided summoning Grand Secretary Zhang, Xu Zhiyi, and other such officials.
The fear was that a rift might open between ruler and minister.
Pei Shaojin wrote at the end of the letter: “Your younger brother believes that a cunning hare keeps three burrows — elder brother would do well to proceed with caution.” Pei Shaohuai understood — Pei Shaojin meant that relying solely on the Son of Heaven’s favor and trust was still too much of a risk. With the current situation unclear, it would be better to keep a way out.
To rely on one’s own strength was more dependable.
Pei Shaojin also said that he planned to first resign from his position as a Supervising Secretary and temporarily refrain from involving himself in the matter of the Tatar peace negotiations, to avoid causing trouble for his older brother, and was asking for his elder brother’s thoughts.
Pei Shaohuai held the letter over a flame and let it burn. In the firelight’s glow, his face showed no trace of worry.
In these recent days, the difficulty of finding Yan Commander’s whereabouts had already given Pei Shaohuai his answer.
He knew a little more than Pei Shaojin, and so from his perspective, the emperor’s “shifting moods” and “unclear stance” did not stem from anything Pei Shaohuai himself had done. Since the emperor had not issued an order to stop him, he could continue doing what he was doing.
Pei Shaohuai took up his brush, sat quietly in thought for a moment, and then put it to paper, writing four characters in reply to Pei Shaojin.
“Do not mind family affairs.”