Bandits without their ships were like fish stripped of their fins — they could only gaze at the water, unable to swim.
A ship was the very foundation of a water bandit’s survival, of paramount importance and utterly indispensable. When they went ashore to plunder, they always left a good number of men aboard to keep watch and act as lookouts. If confronted by a superior enemy force and unable to fight, making a swift escape by raising sail was never a difficult matter.
So how had all their ships been burned to nothing in one sweep?
On the dark sea, one ship after another blazed and burned, trailing dense smoke and roaring flames — like fire lotuses blooming upon the water. At this sight, the bandit leader’s eyes turned bloodshot, his features twisted with ferocity. He became more and more convinced they had been ambushed. The city was held by heavy defenders, and a flanking force had circled around to burn the ships and cut off their retreat — was this not driving them straight into a trap?
If someone had not betrayed their whereabouts in advance, how could the yamen have arranged things so meticulously?
“Boss, what do we do?”
The leader considered, his face darkening with vicious resolve. Then he spoke. “Take the brothers south. First escape the pursuit, then wait for the island to send ships to collect us.”
Before the Taicang prefectural yamen.
The constables and militia had driven off the bandits and held Taicang’s grain — the people had not lost a single grain. Their spirits were now soaring, and they stood ready and eager.
“Under Da Qing law, a common person who slays a bandit in battle may have half their grain tax remitted. For constables who kill bandits and record merit, there are silver rewards and promotions in rank. My friends — the water bandits have lost their ships and can only scramble about on land, like ants that have lost their nest, squeezing into every crack and crevice. They are not merely bandits — they are grain taxes, silver rewards, and merit citations! Who among you is willing to follow this official out of the city to pursue and capture them?”
“Willing! Willing! Willing!”
The shout carried a force that could rival that of a proper garrison army.
Hoes, iron shovels, and long plows — the tools were crude, but they had numbers on their side. The militia members organized themselves into groups of three to five, and their courage swelled considerably.
At this very moment, the other principal player of the evening — Commander Leng — arrived late with over a thousand soldiers. His pace, as Pei Bingyuan had heard upon taking office in spring, was steady and disciplined, unhurried and unrushed.
Commander Leng rode at the head, assuming things would go as smoothly as they always had — put on a show of chasing the bandits, then surround the prefectural yamen to claim the reward.
But to his surprise, the city was ablaze with light throughout, the streets showed no trace whatsoever of bandits, and not a single wail or cry of grief could be heard from any household.
When they arrived before the prefectural yamen, Prefect Pei stood at the very front with his hands clasped behind his back, a long line of militia stretching behind him — he had been waiting especially for Commander Leng of the Zhenhai Guard to arrive.
“Commander Leng has brought his troops here — this must be on the orders of the Guard Commander, to come and resist and pursue the bandits?” Pei Bingyuan called out loudly, seizing the initiative at once.
Commander Leng, reading the situation and sensing that something had changed, could only reply, “Indeed. The guard watchtower reported bandits attacking, and the Guard Commander, concerned for the people of Taicang, sent this official to lead a force here to slay the bandits.”
“Commander Leng has come at just the right moment.” Pei Bingyuan followed the Commander’s own words and said, “The bandits’ assault on the city has collapsed — they are scattered and fleeing in all directions, their forces completely routed. I ask Commander Leng to lead his troops alongside this official out of the city to jointly pursue and capture the bandits!”
Commander Leng had never imagined Pei Bingyuan would make such a demand. Off-balance and unsure, he showed hesitation on his face.
Pei Bingyuan pressed him, “Is Commander Leng unwilling, or is he afraid?” His voice rose in volume.
Commander Leng deflected, “This official, as a military officer, is under the command of the Guard Commander, and I fear I cannot follow Prefect Pei’s orders.”
“Did you not just say the Guard Commander sent you here to resist and pursue the bandits? And now Commander Leng shifts to another set of excuses to put this official off — could it be that within your military ranks, the Guard Commander’s words carry no weight?” said Pei Bingyuan, his tone laden with contempt and mockery. “If that is the case, would it not be laughable to others?”
Before Commander Leng could reply, Pei Bingyuan added, “So be it — time waits for no one. If Commander Leng does not dare go, you are free to do as you please.” He turned to the constables and militia behind him and called out, “Do not let the bandits escape too far — let us go!”
With this, Pei Bingyuan had not only stripped the Zhenhai Guard of face, but also bolstered the morale of his own men.
“Commander, what do we do?” the deputy commander asked quietly.
“Follow them.” Commander Leng gave the order.
At any rate, by this hour, the bandits should have already boarded their ships and put out to sea — what did it matter to accompany this prefect on a fruitless chase? Better than having the Zhenhai Guard condemned for negligence afterward.
If that were to embarrass the Guard Commander, it would not do at all.
Such was Commander Leng’s thinking.
From atop a small hillock, crouching in the thick weeds, the bandit leader looked down and saw the pursers spreading out below with their torches in a dragnet formation, combing through everywhere in search. He also spotted armored soldiers among them — a considerable number — and the man leading them was Commander Leng, broad-shouldered and powerfully built.
He recognized him.
The bandit leader ground his teeth in fury, gnashing them with rage.
“Boss, did that Leng fellow sell us out?”
“He is nothing but a creature sniffing around his master for table scraps.” The bandit leader’s gaze turned cold and lethal. “I thought Commander Wang’s need for military merit to secure a promotion was still a year away, and that he would be willing to cooperate again this year. I did not expect he would be this impatient — that he had already harbored treacherous designs so early.”
The leader spat and said, “Those with nothing to lose have no fear of consequences. This grudge is set.”
He turned to the few brothers beside him and said, “Let’s go. Gather the other leaders — we head north.” Only by escaping safely could he plan his next move. In years of hardship, as long as the key leaders survived, a new force could be assembled again very quickly.
“Yes, sir.”
The darkness of night concealed much, and the nighttime pursuit did not go particularly smoothly. Over the course of one night, only a few dozen stragglers hiding in isolation were captured. From them, the pursuers learned that the bandit leader had taken the main force and fled south.
By the time daylight broke, the entire city’s people had joined in the search for the bandits. At the slightest sound or movement anywhere, word was immediately passed to the constables and militia.
Several days later, the group that had fled south was caught up with and cornered at the edge of a sea cliff. After days of running for their lives, they were utterly exhausted and had no strength left to resist.
When the count was tallied, Pei Bingyuan had led his forces to kill and capture over twelve hundred bandits in total. In terms of military merit, this figure was not particularly outstanding — but among local officials such as prefect and county magistrate, this achievement was notably impressive and rare.
How many others, relying solely on constables and civilian militia, could have achieved such numbers?
In the rear courtyard of the prefectural yamen, a family of three sat together for a meal.
In recent days, the dinner table had always been graced with all manner of gourds, beans, and garden vegetables alongside farmyard chickens, ducks, and other poultry — a different spread each time.
Many of these dishes were ones Pei Bingyuan and Lin Shi had never eaten in the north. They found each one fresh and delicious.
Some were brought by the yamen’s own constables, others sent to the yamen by the local people — all carefully chosen, the very best.
Pei Bingyuan reminded Lin Shi, “We cannot accept these for nothing. This year, though the harvest was good, it is only just enough to fill their large families’ stomachs — there is no true surplus.”
“I understand.” Lin Shi ladled a bowl of rice for Pei Bingyuan — the grains round and plump — and handed it to him. “The ones I could decline, I have already declined. For those I could not, I have had Shen the Second’s wife send copper coins over.”
Lin Shi then asked quietly, “When will this year’s merits be reported to the court?” Then she added, “Among your official colleagues, are there any talented men whose marriages were delayed due to mourning?”
Pei Bingyuan understood Lin Shi’s mind. He replied, “The merits are to be submitted to the court by the Prefect of Suzhou — it will probably not be until the year’s end… As for Bamboo’s marriage, she has her own mind about these things. Perhaps it is best to wait until she leaves the palace, hear her thoughts, and then decide.”
Lin Shi nodded.
With all matters close to home moving in a good direction, Pei Shaohuai had no distractions and was able to give his full attention to his studies, carefully working through essays and scholarship.
At the Donglin Academy, his relationship with Tian Yonglu grew ever closer. The two exchanged scholarly insights with great back-and-forth: Pei Shaohuai shared the stylistic characteristics of essays from the Northern Metropolitan Region, while Tian Yonglu explained to him the methods Jiangnan scholars used to elevate the depth of meaning in their writing.
Both came away greatly enriched.
But of late, Pei Shaohuai had become aware of a significant problem. After much self-reflection, he felt that his learning had reached a plateau, and that the quality of his essays kept hovering at this ceiling without advancing.
It seemed as though everything he wrote was quite good — praiseworthy and noteworthy — and his essays had even been posted by the instructors as model works.
Yet when Pei Shaohuai took out his older essays and reread them — pieces he had once considered passable — he now found them dull and flavorless, like chewing wax.
Every time he sat down to write, the moment he finished one sentence, the next thought came immediately. On the surface, this seemed like a good thing — “writing a thousand words at a sitting” — but in truth, Pei Shaohuai had fallen into a comfort zone, operating out of habit, doing nothing more than repeating what he had done before.
Essays written along the grooves of his mind’s established pathways were nothing more than replicas of essays past.
Only when he set down his brush to think — turning things over carefully, pondering at length — could what flowed from his pen be truly fresh.
Pei Shaohuai understood: he urgently needed a senior scholar whose level far surpassed his own to guide him, only then could he break out of this predicament. Or else he needed to accumulate enough lived experience, to have seen the full breadth of the world, and slowly come to his own understanding over time.
Until he found that “senior scholar,” Pei Shaohuai could only choose the second path — to go out more, to see more. Had not his eldest brother-in-law Xu Zhan only placed second in the imperial examinations after years of lived experience out in the world?
The latest issue of the Chongwen Literary Compendium came off the press. Tian Yonglu brought Pei Shaohuai a copy and said with a smile, “At the back of this issue of the Chongwen Literary Compendium, there is a painting by the Hermit of the South. Do not miss it, Shaohuai.” There was a knowing look in his eyes, clearly hinting at something.
Pei Shaohuai immediately turned to the very last pages. There, amid waves of golden grain, the common people wore expressions of joy on their faces as they swung their arms harvesting rice in great sweeps. The bound sheaves were carried home armful by armful, while many children gathered stray stalks along the field ridges, small baskets on their arms filled with fallen heads of grain.
What a magnificent painting of a hundred farmers at the autumn harvest. Above it was inscribed a poem praising the beauty of the harvest season — a happiness that rightfully belonged to the farming households.
This painting depicted the autumn harvest of Taicang — no wonder Tian Yonglu had especially reminded him to look at the final piece.
Pei Shaohuai then noticed the Hermit of the South’s commentary on the essay by the Northern Sojourner. It read: “The essay is as good as ever, with much to commend it. However, in the third and sixth legs, the ideas expressed in certain passages have already appeared in earlier essays. Though the wording and technique are markedly different — like two entirely distinct works on the surface — at their core they are the same, the underlying argument unchanged… Northern Sojourner may find it worthwhile to go out and walk about for a time. There is still ample time ahead — no need to hurry.”
These words struck Pei Shaohuai squarely in the heart, making it tremble.
A kindred spirit.
A true teacher.
The Hermit of the South’s words confirmed what Pei Shaohuai had sensed about himself — he had indeed been stuck in a certain place for a long while, and he truly needed to break through.
Furthermore, the fact that the Hermit of the South had arrived at this conclusion from reading multiple essays meant that the Hermit’s level of mastery far surpassed his own. As for the final line — “there is still ample time ahead, no need to hurry” — Pei Shaohuai turned it over and over in his mind. He could not help but wonder: from what, exactly, had the Hermit of the South determined that he was a young man, still of tender years with many days ahead?
Truly, from a higher vantage point, one sees things others cannot.
The Hermit of the South had commented not only on Pei Shaohuai’s writing, but on his present state of being.
Pei Shaohuai had already formed the resolve to seek out the Hermit of the South. He therefore asked Tian Yonglu, “Elder Brother Tian, this painting captures something remarkable — and it holds a particular meaning for my father as well. I wonder whether the original might be borrowed for me to bring home, so that my father may appreciate it?”
He spoke the truth, though his words also concealed his own private motive.
Tian Yonglu replied with ease, “But of course. Wait here a moment, Shaohuai — I will go to Chongwen Hall right now to retrieve the painting.”
“Thank you, Elder Brother.”