Chapter Nineteen: The People's Strength

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The Minzhuang, or "Civilian Braves," was a local militia organization first established during the Orthodox reign, classified as one of the four main types of corvée labor under official administration. Because the Minzhuang assembled for training twice a month under local magistrates, they were also called “Drilled Braves” or “Militia in Training.” In different regions, they bore various names according to their particular skills—such as Mechanized Troops, Swift Hands, Enforcers, Archers, and so on.

The dwellings in Xingping Lane were all dug into the mountainside, while the Liu Family Mound was a flat-topped hill surrounded by homes—a modest rise upon the loess plateau, not of any great altitude itself. Ascending the mound, one would find on the small earthen parade ground a group of more than ten sturdy men in farm clothes and seven or eight boys waiting at the side. Standing at the center was Scholar Liu, wearing a square cap and a blue Daoist robe fastened with a broad sash, hands behind his back, holding a slender baton, giving guidance to four of the Minzhuang.

Beneath a tree in one corner of the parade ground stood a martial officer in armor; judging by his helmet and spear, he appeared to be a junior officer from the Yan’an Garrison.

Liu Chengzong, ever sharp-eyed from his archery days, immediately recognized that the four Minzhuang gripped matchlocks in their hands, and a row of wooden targets had been set up some twenty paces ahead.

The matchlock was a muzzle-loading firearm introduced to China one hundred and eight years ago, after the Tuen Mun naval battle in the sixteenth year of Emperor Zhengde of the Ming dynasty. By now it was hardly a novelty. In the past century, the Ming had seen the Imjin War in Korea and a flourishing silk trade with the Spanish Philippines; one could find examples of nearly every type of firearm produced worldwide in the Ming realm.

The matchlock was, and remained, the most widely-issued small-caliber, muzzle-loading firearm among the armies of the day. The Ming dynasty had made great strides in firearms—foot and mounted matchlock units, and even developed rapid-firing Frangqi-style matchlocks and gun-blades, building upon native innovations in hybrid weaponry.

Liu Chengzong had seen it at Yuhe Fort: matchlock troops carried straight-edged short swords, which could be fitted into the barrel for close combat.

Those Minzhuang who used firearms were also called Mechanized Troops. When the authorities called up levies, these local gunners would be drafted as firearm reservists into the regular army.

At this moment, the four Mechanized Troops, fire cords wound around their arms and matchlocks in hand, stood in tense silence on the parade ground. Scholar Liu raised his hand and then dropped it. The four men placed their four-foot-long matchlocks upright on the ground, unfastened their powder flasks, and poured powder into the measuring tubes.

After a few moments, at the next signal, they poured the measured powder into the barrel; at the next, they drew the ramrods from under the barrels, spun them deftly, and tamped down the powder with practiced motions.

The fourth command was to load the projectile; the fifth, to ram it home with the rod once again.

At the sixth command, the matchlocks were finally leveled, and the troopers poured priming powder into the pan on the side of the lock.

At the seventh command, the fire cords—previously coiled around their arms—were fixed into the serpentine clamps on the matchlocks. Only now were the weapons truly ready to fire.

The four men, two kneeling in front and two standing behind, leveled their matchlocks and aimed. Scholar Liu clasped his hands behind his back and said nothing, waiting in silence until the troopers' arms, strained by the weight of the guns, began to tremble. Only then did he give the order: “Fire!”

Yet there was none of the crack Liu Chengzong had anticipated. All four Mechanized Troops pulled their triggers, the serpentine clamps brought the fire cords to the pans, but not a single matchlock fired.

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This outcome seemed to surprise no one except him.

Shi Wanzhong murmured in explanation, “The officials allotted too little powder, so the master rarely uses real gunpowder in drills—what they poured was just fine dirt.”

When the full cycle of matchlock drill was complete, Scholar Liu stepped forward, wooden switch in hand, and scolded each of the troopers in turn, apparently finding none up to his standard. He ordered each to extend a palm and rapped them several times with the switch.

The gesture was all too familiar to Liu Chengzong, watching from the side. When he and his elder brother were children, their father had used this very method to supervise their studies—whenever either erred, the elder, Chengzu, would be punished while Chengzong watched.

It was precisely because of this that the first idiom Liu Chengzong ever learned was “kill the chicken to scare the monkey”—he always studied with utmost diligence.

Scholar Liu then shot a fierce glance at Liu Chengzong, who stood by the parade ground holding the reins of his horse. Turning back to the troopers, he said sternly, “Clean your barrels and rest for a quarter of an hour. Reflect on your movements. Soon we’ll have a drill with withdrawal by ranks and a live-fire assessment.”

He then addressed the garrison officer standing by: “Chief Peng, in a moment, please raise the banner and prepare real powder.”

Scholar Liu, still in the prime of life, had not grown stout as others did by thirty, for poverty in his youth and a year’s imprisonment had kept his frame trim and his spirit vigorous.

“Father.”

“What are you doing back here?” Liu Xiangyu’s brows knit, his face turning from sunny to stormy at the sight of his younger son, clearly troubled by the times and harboring dark suspicions. He cut short the conversation: “Go home immediately. Don’t go out, don’t see anyone.”

At first, Liu Chengzong did not understand. But on hearing this, he realized: his father suspected he was a deserter. He hurriedly said, “It’s not just me—my elder brother is back too.”

He quickly explained the situation, including their defeat of the White Eagle bandits. “Elder brother sent me to fetch people and carts to help bring back the grain. The wagons are too heavy for us to move alone.”

Realizing his son was not a deserter, Liu Xiangyu relaxed considerably. Accustomed to official command, he immediately gave orders, calling several young men from the parade ground: “Go to the fields and summon the others. Have every household bring their donkeys and carts. The Minzhuang are to take up arms and come down the mountain with me to Clear Plain Valley to meet our men.”

“You’ve run forty li—do you want to eat first or come along? Then walk and talk.”

With that, Liu Xiangyu turned to speak with Chief Peng, who merely nodded and let a village boy lead him to rest. Before leaving, Chief Peng cupped his hands in salute toward Liu Chengzong.

In short order, a dozen Minzhuang armed themselves with spears, tridents, and broadswords and followed the master down the mound in grand procession.

At the foot of the hill, more villagers gathered, some pushing wheelbarrows or driving donkey carts toward the village center.

Though it was early spring, usually a busy time, the drought had left people idle with time on their hands.

“Why is Father drilling troops this year?”

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“It’s only drilling, not leading them to war. To drill men, all you need are regulations, manuals, and authority. Or do you think your father lacks the prestige to make men obey?”

Liu Xiangyu spoke with an air that allowed no contradiction. Liu Chengzong did not dispute him; he merely felt puzzled as he removed his helmet and walked a few paces in silence before saying, “Father certainly has prestige, but this is different from before.”

His father was a certified scholar and had held office for over a decade. Though not a county magistrate, he was respected by neighbors and elders alike. Yet respect was not the same as authority, and what Liu Chengzong saw now was more than mere respect—everyone obeyed his father’s every word. Moreover, militia drills had never been their family’s concern before. The hometown, too, was unlike elsewhere; there was a sense of vibrant hope, and Liu Chengzong was at a loss as to how to express his mounting questions.

Liu Xiangyu maintained his stern manner for a moment, but seeing his son’s silence, his expression softened into a complex mix of pride and sorrow. “Because I suffered for my words, I know better than anyone that the years of calamity have come.”

“Last year, blessed by the new emperor’s amnesty, I returned home and gathered the clan elders to plan the year’s farming, mobilized the villagers to clear the Panlong River’s channels, and planted drought-resistant crops.”

“By last year, I’d heard from the prefectural office of the Guyuan mutiny and the rising banditry in northern Shaanxi, so I invited Chief Peng from the Yan’an Garrison to teach martial skills to the village boys… But it’s a pity about the younger generation.”

He paused in his stride, sighing softly, “Why is it that no one in our family has ever reached the palace examination?”

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Notes:

1. Ming Dynasty militia training.

Minzhuang were selected from among the common people, and most members were untutored peasants. To make them as capable as the regular army, the Ming dynasty implemented a series of training measures, and in the Tianshun and Zhengde reigns, provided training grounds, arms, and pay. Later, responsible officials grew negligent or embezzled central funds, and this once powerful militia gradually fell into decay.

2. The Frangqi (Frankish) matchlock and gun-blade are described in “The Military Records” by He Rubin, Vice-Commander of Ning-Shao, Ming Dynasty, and master illustrator. The Chongzhen third-year edition, Volume 12, “Methods of Ironworking,” pages 26 and 27, details the mother-and-son gun and its variants. The book was destroyed in the forty-fifth year of the Qianlong reign.