Chapter Fourteen: The White Eagle

The smoke over the village grew thicker and thicker. At last, the charred beams and pillars of the outermost dwellings could no longer support the heavy roofs, and with a crashing sound, the bricks and tiles collapsed. Within the earthen walls, the cooking fires had already gone out.

Groups of idle men, their stomachs full, wandered outside the enclosure, surveying the courtyards strewn with corpses. Leisurely and content, they knocked here and tapped there, attempting to squeeze the last bit of wealth from a village already drained of life, eager to leave laden with spoils. Seventeen wooden carts stood at the gate; once drawn by oxen, horses, or donkeys, now the animals were gone—each cart pushed by men. The burlap sacks loaded onto the carts were heavy and bulging, leaving deep ruts in the yellow earth.

The bandit chief, known as White Hawk, stepped out from the enclosure, squinting at the sky. His loose, weathered skin gathered into deep creases across his dark face. “The smoke’s been burning for an hour,” he muttered, “drag the bodies to the roadside, time to go.” He clapped his hands, hitched up his trousers, and limped forward a few paces. Raising his leg, he stepped over a corpse whose feet were bare, turned back for a closer look, squatted, and grabbed the chin of a dead deserter whose eyes would not close, examined the face, then shoved it aside with a grin.

White Hawk no longer remembered whether this was his fifth or sixth year as an outlaw, just as he couldn’t recall how many people he’d killed. All he knew was that the past two years had been going increasingly well for him.

He had once been a day laborer in Sui De County, so poor he hardly even had a home—just a shed for a donkey. In his youth, he was known throughout the neighboring villages as an honest and strong worker, always called upon when someone needed help. Later, he married a good wife from Mi Zhi; she was both pretty and industrious, making even the hard days seem less bitter.

Life gradually improved. In their first year together, they bought an ox, leased fifty mu of land, and worked themselves to the bone—pleasing even the landlord. By their third year, they had their own land, a pair of children, and finally built a new cave house. Pigs and sheep filled the pens, chickens and rabbits shared cages, and life grew as prosperous as the potted peppers in the magistrate’s office.

The day they moved into the new house, White Hawk tossed and turned, unable to sleep on a bed for the first time in his life, feeling awkward no matter how he lay. He stayed awake until morning, his mind full of his wife’s talk about saving money to send their children to school, so one day they might become scholars.

He was reluctant; after a hard year, finally able to save a little money and splurge on some meat during festivals, now he had to save for the children’s future tuition? Besides, who could tell if his offspring had any talent for books? He’d attended a half-year of village school as a boy when working for a landlord—what good had it done? He was still just a stable hand.

He thought of himself as a dog—how could he raise a scholar? Yet, despite his reservations, if he craved meat, he’d sneak a smack at the child when they were too young to remember, but he still saved the money as his wife wished.

Years passed, and just as things were getting better, drought struck northern Shaanxi.

Drought never comes alone; it’s the hungry people who stir things up. All over Yan’an Prefecture, societies formed in protest—White Lotus and Luo cults masquerading as associations of loyalty and righteousness, inciting violence everywhere.

White Hawk dared not travel the main roads. Wheat withered in the fields, his wife’s woven cloth wouldn’t sell, but the imperial taxes couldn’t be neglected. The tax collector stood outside, fierce as a demon; husband and wife wept inside, then sold their old ox to pay the dues.

He later learned that some taxes could be delayed—those collected for the emperor, if negotiated carefully. But the local surcharges, which paid the collectors’ salaries, could not be refused.

White Hawk regretted selling the ox; without it, he couldn’t lease land. The next year, he avoided paying the emperor’s share, but even the remainder forced him to sell their land for the local taxes. The third year, the heavens relented and the drought ended—but he had no land left, neither leased nor owned.

When tax time came again, he had nothing left to sell. At last, he touched the money saved for the children’s schooling. He told his wife not to grieve, admitting their family wasn’t destined for scholars.

Even so, fate would not spare him. Life became a cycle: he returned to day labor, saved up for food, bought an ox, leased fifty mu, bought a plot, then another, only to face new taxes from the county and two more from the court.

In the forty-sixth year of Wanli’s reign, war broke out—taxes increased three and a half fen per mu; the next year, another three and a half; the year after, two more, a total rise of nine fen per mu. Compared to each mu’s grain yield, nine fen of silver was not much—really, not much at all. But after years of drought in northern Shaanxi, that nine fen was ruinous.

Then, during the Tianqi era, drought returned. Everyone gritted their teeth to survive. Military households dwindled in Sui De, while mountain bandits multiplied. First, families ran out of stored grain; then, desperate crowds formed gangs to rob travelers and wealthy homes, soon finding even the rich couldn’t feed them.

People mixed wild grass, tree bark, and white stones into cakes, steamed them to eat, but it could not last. At such times, there were no bandits—anyone might become a thief.

That year, White Hawk reached his wits’ end. After owing years of taxes and surcharges, his robust build made him an easy target, either from fear or because he seemed easy to bully. He became the chicken in the fable, slaughtered to frighten the monkeys.

The tax collectors who’d once been reasonable vanished. Bailiffs hauled him to the office, and before a hundred other tax debtors, broke his left leg with a “punishment stick.” To save his right leg, he borrowed at usurious rates.

White Hawk was crippled. His wife had no land or ox, couldn’t support the family. Public safety deteriorated; their eldest daughter ran away and never returned. To feed their son, his wife sold herself for three dou of millet, and White Hawk became a beggar.

Later, his beloved wife was found dead in the dry moat outside the city, naked, without even a sheet to cover her. Driven mad, White Hawk sought justice, but as a beggar, the household slaves wouldn’t let him near the door.

He learned she’d stolen bread from her master to feed their child, and was tortured to death when discovered.

Their remaining child didn’t starve—White Hawk himself strangled him, saying it was better than suffering alive.

Afterward, the bailiff who had broken his leg was found strangled in the latrine; the young master who bought his wife died from a fall in the rock garden; the cook’s head was stuffed in the stove; the patriarch was tied and thrown among corpses outside the city, dying of fright.

White Hawk, now lame, turned outlaw, robbing merchants and travelers. Without martial skills or military experience, he was hunted from Sui De to Qing Jian, then into the mountains. Wherever he went, he left no survivors.

He cared nothing for justice, nor did he rob the rich to aid the poor; both rich and poor met the same fate if he crossed their paths. Stumbling along for years, he gathered skilled followers and gained a fearsome reputation in Sui De Prefecture.

Now, White Hawk’s bandit den was more organized, though he still didn’t know exactly how many men he commanded—sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on the year. In good years, the mountain bandits returned home to farm; in bad years, peasants fled to join the bandits, cultivating plots among the hills, living little differently from other villagers.

When news came from the towns below, the den’s farmers put down their tools and picked up weapons, descending for a major raid.

In earlier times, such loosely organized bandit dens wouldn’t survive a year; but now, as the local government collapsed, peasants fled in droves, becoming refugees, and officials lacked the strength even to defend those who remained.

At such times, the only ones who bothered to confront mountain bandits were other bandits.

Actually, Cao Yao was right—White Hawk had indeed marched south with Wang Zuo Gua’s great army, not because he wanted to join the rebels, but because Wang Zuo Gua was utterly unreasonable, sweeping up everyone in his path. Small leaders like White Hawk had no choice.

White Hawk issued the order to move out, and several trusted lieutenants gathered. “Boss, are we heading south, or... back north?”

“To hell with the south,” White Hawk replied, waving dismissively, “Wang Zuo Gua’s supervisor is dead, going south is suicide. Those rotten fools aren’t worth it. Hitch up the grain carts—we’re returning to Sui De.”

At his words, his men’s faces brightened, though worry lingered. Someone asked, “What if Wang Zuo Gua comes back?”

“Back?” White Hawk shrugged and let out a cold laugh. “Near Xi’an Prefecture, the court won’t let him run rampant—he probably won’t make it back... Someone’s there!”

Following his gaze, in the midst of the burning houses at the western edge of the village, a squad appeared, clad in red armor, helmet flags flying, armed with swords, shields, bows, and spears, advancing in two columns like twin dragons. Before they even arrived, a dozen sharp arrows flew, felling every bandit who tried to flee.

“Imperial troops! The imperial army is here!”

Half a red flag appeared atop the mountain ridge. Even White Hawk felt no urge to resist, shouting for his men to push the grain carts and flee eastward.