Zhu Ping’an had gone to great lengths to create a chart, meticulously compiling and categorizing information gathered from local baojia (community self-defense units). He marked the number of reports from each county, town, and village on a massive map, making the data clear at a glance.
This enormous map was hand-drawn by Zhu Ping’an himself, a task that took several days to complete, with precision down to the level of individual villages.
After completing the first map, Zhu Ping’an had clerks make several copies for backup. The one now hanging in his study was one of these copies.
As for the specific reports submitted by the baojia, Zhu Ping’an had redacted the informants’ identities and forwarded the details to the relevant prefectural and county authorities for verification and action. No leniency could be shown to evildoers.
To prevent local officials from being perfunctory, Zhu Ping’an ordered them to report back on the verification and handling of each case.
Once the map was marked, Zhu Ping’an pulled up a chair and sat before it, studying it intently.
After poring over the map for a long time, he stood, retrieved a charcoal pencil from his sleeve, and lightly circled thirty-three locations. He then heavily marked six of these.
The thirty-three locations were suspicious because they had reported *zero* incidents.
Each of these areas had dozens of baojia units, yet not a single report had come from them. Other regions had submitted tens or even hundreds of reports, but these thirty-three places had nothing—not a single one. This anomaly suggested either a failure to implement the ten-household baojia system effectively or something more sinister at play.
Given how long the ten-household baojia system had been in place, and with locals increasingly reporting to protect themselves, the complete absence of reports from these areas was highly irregular.
The six locations Zhu Ping’an had emphasized were even more concerning. Beyond their zero reports, they had been flagged by neighboring baojia units. These reports varied—some mentioned suspicious individuals entering the area, others spoke of rumors about collusion with Japanese pirates, or people suddenly becoming inexplicably wealthy.
Of these six locations, two were in northern Zhejiang, and four were along the southern Zhejiang coast.
The two in northern Zhejiang were Douniu Pu, not far from Wangjiangjing, about twenty miles northwest, and Fuchun Bay, eighty miles northeast of Jiaxing city.
The four in southern Zhejiang were Dahai Bay in Zhenhai, Baofeng Village in Beicang, and Nanwang Village and Beichong Village in Fenghua.
Douniu Pu and Fuchun Bay were near the impending Battle of Wangjiangjing, with Douniu Pu especially close.
Such a critical location warranted intense scrutiny, even with the slightest suspicion.
The four southern Zhejiang locations were near Zhoushan’s Ligan Port, within the sphere of influence of Wang Zhi’s Japanese pirates.
Zhu Ping’an even suspected these six places might be collectively colluding with the pirates.
Investigation was necessary, but it had to be discreet to avoid alerting the suspects.
Zhu Ping’an ordered round-the-clock covert surveillance of these villages to see if anything unusual surfaced.
After three days of continuous monitoring, all the watchers reported that the villages showed no abnormalities.
The villagers followed normal routines, identical to other villages, and weren’t isolated—they interacted normally with neighboring communities.
People visited each other, went to see relatives, wandered the streets, herded sheep, tended cattle, worked the fields, or labored—all perfectly ordinary.
Zhu Ping’an compiled the surveillance reports and spread them on his desk, reviewing them repeatedly. Everything seemed normal.
But that very normalcy was what made it abnormal.
Perhaps the surveillance period was too short, or the approach wasn’t thorough enough. Zhu Ping’an ordered the monitoring to continue while pondering how to investigate further.
To dig deeper into these villages, Zhu Ping’an selected a soldier from the Zhejiang army who had once been a peddler. He instructed the man to resume his old trade, traveling from village to village, passing through the suspicious locations from northern to southern Zhejiang.
A peddler wasn’t a role just anyone could play. In ancient times, peddlers didn’t merely sell needles, thread, or daily goods while rattling a drum. They also delivered letters, wrote for others, told fortunes, acted as healers, and needed to be versatile.
They required eloquence, the ability to sing distinctive calls for different wares, and, ideally, skills in juggling or acrobatics.
At Douniu Pu, as the sun climbed high, a peddler approached, carrying two baskets balanced on a pole, adorned with bamboo dragonflies, wooden swords, and other toys to attract children.
He swayed as he walked, shaking a double-sided drum and singing a catchy tune: “Varicolored ribbons, bright red thread, Boshan glass hairpins. And there’s more—peach blossom powder, rouge patches, soft jade flower crowns. Red and green shuttle cloth, Hangzhou velvet, agate earrings. I’ve got it all—wooden combs, ink brushes, white copper thimbles, shoe awls, fashionable high-heeled plum blossom shoes, Bingzhou willow-leaf scissors…”
As the peddler entered the village, his silver tongue worked its magic. He could sell to anyone he met.
“Big sisters, aunties, grandmas—no need to rush to the market today! Rouge, hairpins, shoe awls—I’ve got everything you need!”
“Big brothers, uncles, gentlemen—come this way, take a look! My medicinal powder’s miraculous: take it in the day for boundless energy, take it at night for energy all over!”
“Little friends, don’t fret—I’ve got treats and toys aplenty…”
The peddler’s charisma was undeniable. When he set down his baskets, he became the village’s focal point. A crowd gathered, some just to watch the spectacle. Impatient children tugged at their parents, pointing at the goods and crying for toys, prompting some short-tempered adults to give them a swift smack.
The scene grew livelier.
While selling his wares, the peddler subtly observed every person and place.
“Grandma, I’m parched. Could I trouble you for a bowl of water at your house?”
When he’d sold most of his stock, the peddler used thirst as an excuse to visit an elderly woman’s home for water. After drinking, he gifted her a needle as thanks, using the opportunity to chat about local gossip.
While the peddler worked his way through the villages, a messenger arrived at the Zhejiang Governor’s Office with an order from Governor-General Zhang Jing, requesting an audience with Zhu Ping’an.
“The Governor-General commands that, to support the provisions for the wolf soldiers, spearmen, and other guest troops, Zhejiang is to dispatch ten thousand bushels of grain from the granaries and five hundred bushels of salt from the salt stores to Jiaxing for delivery. The shipment must arrive within ten days without fail. Violators will face military law.”
The messenger knelt on one knee, presenting a sealed letter to Zhu Ping’an with a concise explanation of the order.
Zhu Ping’an read the letter carefully. Its contents matched the messenger’s words, demanding grain and salt be sent to Jiaxing.
Hadn’t Governor-General Zhang already amassed ample provisions? Why was he now urgently requesting more grain and salt from various regions?
Zhu Ping’an paused for a few seconds, then his eyes lit up with realization. Governor-General Zhang was about to make his move.
The Battle of Wangjiangjing was imminent.
“Please inform the Governor-General that Zhejiang will deliver ten thousand bushels of grain and five hundred bushels of salt to Jiaxing within ten days,” Zhu Ping’an said, bowing to the messenger.
“Understood. I have other duties and will take my leave,” the messenger replied, clasping his fists before departing.
