Chapter Twenty

As the schedule advanced, the spring plowing unfolded step by step in an orderly fashion. Yet, the staggering number of refugees needing resettlement pressed the Han military government to the brink; the hastily constructed administrative framework, under this immense workload, seemed barely able to withstand the strain. To ensure the success of this vast enterprise, Li Guangdi deployed nearly all his subordinates—clerks, advisers, and other officials—so much so that, for a time, he became a lone commander in Beijing.

It was during this moment that a singular institution unexpectedly emerged onto the historical stage. As the Han government teetered under exhaustion, the "Han Commercial Tax and Law Revision Committee" made its debut. Clearly, this organization appeared as a testament to Marshal Lin Feng's collusion with illicit merchants—especially striking in a China that, for thousands of years, had revered agriculture and sericulture as foundational. In ordinary times, its formation would surely have been condemned by the scholarly class, yet in this crisis, most suppressed their academic principles, for the committee played a crucial role in the spring plowing effort.

Under Marshal Lin Feng's direction, the Chief of the Jin-Huai Chamber of Commerce, Mr. Xu Dangyang, called upon all his colleagues to initiate a charitable movement for "relief of the people's livelihood." In Lin Feng's eyes, this operation was reminiscent of later "agricultural cooperatives" or "mutual aid groups," though with significant differences. In essence, Jin merchants' banks brought out their silver, buying vast quantities of potato and sweet potato seeds from Huai merchants and grocers, then purchased tens of thousands of draft horses and mules from the Han government. These resources were distributed to refugees as low-interest loans, with repayment scheduled over several years. Since the Han government managed refugees through clan leadership, Jin merchants signed contracts with each clan head. Once these assets entered production, the seeds, tools, and livestock became communal property of the clans, with a set of farming equipment shared among several families. After harvest, the elders would collect repayments from each household.

Due to Marshal Lin’s uncompromising stance, this seventeenth-century financial or futures transaction, after much uproar, gradually came to a close. Though Jin merchants wielded immense influence in Chinese commerce, they could not overturn the outcome this time. Several reasons accounted for this: apart from Xu Dangyang, who, despite being a Jin merchant, faithfully executed Lin Feng’s policies and used his prestige to sway others, broader support from other merchants was lacking. Given the unprecedentedly favorable Han industrial and commercial policies, merchants and factory owners had no reason to oppose the marshal over what was, after all, an ethically questionable affair. Thus, increasingly hopeless, the Jin merchants eventually acquiesced; for merchants, business must go on—even with lower interest, as long as there is profit, it is worth pursuing.

The Han territories’ commercial and industrial development surged with astonishing momentum. After reading reports from Xu Dangyang and Li Guangdi, Lin Feng could scarcely believe his eyes. To his mind, he had invested little energy in industry and commerce, and his policies barely aligned with conventional notions of "economic development." The Han government had never engaged in "attracting investment" or similar ventures. If one could call it protection of commerce, it amounted only to regulating government behavior and strictly forbidding bureaucrats from abusing power against industry and business. Additionally, he ordered local clerks and garrisons to issue "merchant protection decrees," commanding all Han military forces to guarantee the safety of registered merchants.

Aside from establishing a munitions and steel enterprise, Lin Feng had not implemented any "five-year plans" or "spark missions"—a source of his constant self-satisfaction. Despite thriving in this era and rising to a leadership position, he had not succumbed to self-aggrandizement—a flaw common to most leaders. One must not become too successful, for excessive success breeds overconfidence, which invariably leads to reckless actions. History is replete with leaders whose reputations were ruined by such follies—take the "Learn from Dazhai in Agriculture" movement or other misguided leaps as examples.

The expansion of Han military power was well known—both the army and government institutions grew daily—yet the financial situation remained dire, deficits severe, and the problem seemed insoluble. It was not yet harvest time, so agricultural taxes could not be collected, and new commercial policies imposed low tax rates. For this period, Li Guangdi could hardly make ends meet, resorting to desperate measures, though even so, tax revenues remained scant. The Han army still relied on the reserves inherited from Kangxi.

It was then that Marshal Lin, ever resourceful, devised another ingenious plan.

Throughout the long winter at Tianjin port, Shi Lang and Yang Haisheng waged a fierce contest, urging shipbuilding craftsmen to their limits. Both men recognized the marshal’s ploy—an obvious goad—but neither would yield. The reason was simple: to let the rival become one's superior, issuing orders with smug authority, was unthinkable—it would be preferable to end one’s life outright.

This rivalry had a remarkable effect on efficiency, and in naval investment, the Han army truly eliminated corruption. The two admirals, unusually frugal, not only weighed every expense but enthusiastically poured their own salaries into the effort. Shipbuilders suffered as both generals camped among them, watching their work with unblinking eyes—no one could expect a general to be patient.

With these matters delegated, Li Guangdi’s government could focus its energies on village organization, administrative control, waterworks, land planning, and negotiations with local natives—projects vital for the rational use of administrative resources.

After observing these events, Han government ministers began to question traditional policies. The classical system handed down by sages now seemed stifling; watching the marshal and merchants spinning the wheels of progress, Li Guangdi, Tang Bin, and Chen Menglei all felt privately embarrassed. What was this? For millennia, China was governed by emperors and scholars—who had ever heard of "ruling together with merchants"?

Doubt and reflection on these social realities led, in the spring of 1685, to several unknown radicals founding the so-called "Industrial and Commercial Poetry Society" in a filthy, malodorous inn in Beijing. This group was neither a political party nor an academic institution, and with only a few members, it soon dissolved for economic reasons—lasting barely twenty days. Its legacy was just a handful of long, seven-rhyme poems commenting on current affairs. Yet, for centuries afterward, all Chinese remembered this fleeting historical moment thanks to their history textbooks.

Lin Feng was not unaware of the turbulent undercurrents, but at the time, he could do nothing. The literati had controlled China’s public opinion for thousands of years; no one could change that overnight. And given the chaotic era, every warlord deployed strange tactics—some even more outrageous than Lin Feng’s. Thus, the scholarly class did not find the pro-commerce policy too odd; though some extreme conservatives grumbled, most approached the matter with curiosity, scrutiny, and amusement. The scholars of Zhili, directly affected by economic panic, understood well, and had already accepted Han rule. However, when they conveyed the situation to outsiders, the political reality became distorted. By the time the news reached scholars elsewhere, it had been filtered through Confucian doctrine: Lin Feng’s tireless rescue of hundreds of thousands, and his "forced" acceptance of merchants' terms, were connected. In their imaginations, merchants exploited the marshal’s benevolence with endless trickery, and though Lin Feng fought back, he ultimately had to yield to commercial tyranny for the sake of the suffering masses. Thus, the current era emerged. The literati expressed a degree of tolerance and understanding for the marshal’s choice, citing the sage’s dictum: "If your sister-in-law is drowning, your uncle may reach out to help," meaning urgent circumstances justify flexible measures—Lin Feng, in governance, had not strayed from the grand framework.

Several government ministers maintained silence in correspondence with friends, especially Li Guangdi, who faced criticism for allowing merchants to exercise traditional government functions under his administration. Some complaints came from his former colleagues still serving in the Qing court—people not easily trifled with. Most saw the subversive danger here—far more terrifying than a mere change of dynasty for those steeped in Confucianism from childhood.

At this moment, however, Li Guangdi could not answer these objections; his government was busy counting money. Lin Feng, by reselling treasures, had gained merchants’ strong support. To demonstrate loyalty to the marshal, Xu Dangyang and others even discounted goods before shipment. Lin Feng could not demand unconditional funds—after all, it was business. For these seasoned merchants, the deal promised handsome profit but carried enormous risk. Their willingness to step forward and let Lin Feng transfer risk was already the limit of their support.

The sum involved was so immense that even the renowned Shanxi banking houses could not pay in silver outright, instead settling accounts with their own banknotes. Besides loyalty to Lin Feng, merchants saw great promise in the goods' prospects.

Officially, the cargo would be shipped south by sea, though some might be smuggled overland for secret sale through branch networks. Xu Dangyang and others were well prepared; in winter, they had already shipped some goods to test the market, finding demand far exceeded supply. The south was wealthy and fashionable, with many rich, cultured patrons—so the market for antiques and treasures was vast. According to winter transactions, a Ming-era painting by Tang Bohu, "Spring Trees and Autumn Fragrance," fetched 120,000 silver taels in Zhejiang—even in a hurried, secret sale. Buyers from afar reportedly offered even more. Xu Dangyang made 40,000 taels on that single deal—Lin Feng had handed it over at a price of 80,000—arousing envy among all Jin merchants, who now flocked to seize the opportunity.

Such business required extraordinary skill, deep connections, and strict adherence to traditional commercial principles. Lin Feng thus entrusted all matters to the reputable Jin banking houses—only seasoned experts could maximize value. They knew, for instance, how to create a sensation with a single item, how many pieces to release per province in a given period, or how oversupply might depress prices—such tasks belonged only to specialists.

Having confiscated countless princes and nobles, and even dismantled the Forbidden City, Lin Feng's supply of treasures was abundant. During the conquest of Beijing, his troops plundered freely, but fortunately, little of the precious antiques was lost, for the soldiers did not recognize the worth of these flimsy papers and battered jade trinkets. After Lin Feng organized a thorough collection, the haul filled two warehouses. He kept a few pieces as rewards for his civil officials; the rest he intended to convert into grain, muskets, cannons, or even warhorses and military supplies.

According to market rules for antiques and curios, selling off the entire stock would take at least ten years, even with Jin merchants working at full capacity. The profits would be astronomical. Setting aside future returns, even immediate gains vastly improved the Han government’s finances.

As the two small fleets at Tianjin, laden with national treasures and anticipation, sailed into the Bohai Sea, Lin Feng packed his bags for a journey. He had already received replies from Ma Dagang and the Cao brothers in Liaodong: these bold men, true to their reputation, would not show weakness to Marshal Lin—otherwise, they would have to hide in women’s skirts in the future. Ma Dagang was especially forthright, perhaps provoked by Lin Feng’s challenge, or simply wishing to test him. He proposed meeting at Shili Pavilion outside Shanhaiguan—well within range of Wang Da's corps’ red-barreled cannons.

The marshal’s departure threw the General Staff into chaos. After consulting General Zhou Peigong, Lin Feng issued new orders: the two regiments of four thousand cavalry stationed at Xuanhua, originally bound for Liaodong, were recalled and redirected to Beijing’s Fengtai camp. Along with three thousand guards, they were assigned as escort, accompanying the marshal to Shanhaiguan for a tripartite conference on the Liaodong question.