Chapter Forty-Four: Commander Niu Qing

The construction of Junzi Fort was completed not long ago, in the second year of Xuande. Now, in the fourteenth year of Zhengtong, it has stood for exactly twenty-two years. Throughout these twenty-two years, the post of garrison commander has always been held by men bearing the surname Niu. The current commander is Niu Qing; the two before him were his grandfather, Niu Hai, and his father, Niu Yuan.

In these two decades and more, the position of commander at Junzi Fort has never changed hands outside the Niu family, nor has anyone ever coveted the post, nor raised objections to three successive generations of the Niu family holding it. This might strike one as rather odd, for ever since the founding of the Ming by the Grand Ancestor, it was decreed that no official might serve in his native place, and that fathers, sons, and brothers could not hold office in the same locality—let alone have three generations occupy the same post for so long.

Yet the Niu family achieved precisely what the Grand Ancestor forbade, and not a soul raised a word against it. The reason is recorded in a dust-covered volume in the Archives of the Office of Military Affairs: In the sixth year of Xuande, northern marauders raided the border, and Commander Niu Hai died in battle. His son, Niu Yuan, succeeded him. In the seventh year of Zhengtong, Niu Yuan was killed by Tartar raiders, and his son, Niu Qing, succeeded him.

When the grandfather died, the son took up the mantle; when the son died, the grandson stepped in. Three generations—all loyal and valiant—were promoted in turn. Who would dare object to such succession for a mere commandership?

Moreover, civil and military officials followed different paths. The Grand Ancestor forbade civil officials from serving in their native places to prevent them from exploiting their office for private gain, oppressing the people. But no such rule applied to military officers, especially not to those defending the frontier. In fact, it was customary for sons to succeed their fathers—when the old died, the young continued in their stead. Unless the Ming itself fell, these garrison soldiers would forever take root in this borderland.

The post of commander was not high, but it was nonetheless an imperial appointment, registered by the Office of Military Affairs and confirmed by the Ministry of War as a sixth-rank officer. He commanded over a hundred military households and was responsible for defending an outpost. However humble the position, it still offered some opportunities for personal gain. Although succession by inheritance had become tradition, the tides of change over decades meant that many soldiers would spend a lifetime reaching only the rank of squad leader, and many coveted the chance to move up to commander. Even the Niu family's loyalty could hardly guarantee three generations in the post, for whether one could become commander depended not only on precedent but also on the whims of superiors. Those who failed to inherit their father's office could queue from the town to the next village.

In truth, the real reason the Niu family could so securely hold the post at Junzi Fort was simply that the place was far too poor and desolate—so barren that not even birds would nest there. No one wanted to take up the command of this miserable outpost.

Though Junzi Fort was the only exit through the Malian Mountain Pass, compared to great commercial strongholds like Dushi and Longmen, it could barely attract a single rider, let alone a merchant caravan. The Mongol tribes beyond Malian Mountain were destitute, with nothing to trade with Han caravans. Thus, though Junzi Fort guarded a strategic pass, it yielded no profit throughout the year.

With no spoils to be had, commanding at Junzi Fort was a thankless task, and no one would be foolish enough to envy such hardship. And so, by default, the command became a hereditary office of the Niu family.

Niu Qing himself had no desire to be commander, for he had won the post only through hardship. When his grandfather Niu Hai was commander, he served as a junior officer; when his father Niu Yuan succeeded to the command, he became the fort's sole chief officer. And so, each time a loved one died, he moved up one rank. How could he ever take joy in such a promotion?

The only consolation for Niu Qing was that his son would never repeat his path. He need not worry that, should he die, his son would inherit this bitter office, for his only son had vanished in the Malian Mountains at the age of seven.

That year, a blizzard raged, blanketing both sides of the border in white. Rumor had it the Tatars beyond the mountains were so starved they turned to cannibalism.

...

It was already late July, with a chill in the air morning and evening. Calculating that the Mid-Autumn Festival was but twenty days away, Niu Qing resolved to make a trip to the town. First, to present the required festival gifts to the superior officer at the main garrison—humble as they were, they expressed his loyalty. Second, to buy rice and flour, so that on the festival day everyone might have mooncakes to eat—a gesture from him as commander, for most of the soldiers had grown up with him and shared bonds of camaraderie.

After all, eating mooncakes and slaying Tatars was a tradition handed down by the Grand Ancestor himself—it must not be broken. Besides, rumor had it the Tatar Grand Preceptor to the north was again leading a raid across the border; if there was to be war, mooncakes must all the more be eaten—how else to inspire the men to slay the enemy?

His own savings were meager. Within the fort lived over a hundred military households; counting families, more than four hundred mouths. To give each a mooncake would require dozens of catties of white flour, not to mention the sugar. Once that was spent, little money would remain—he feared they might go hungry next month.

The court's salary was paid in depreciated currency; even the grain deliveries were shorted. The income the soldiers eked out from their fields was far from enough to support a commander’s expenses. Niu Qing had occasionally sent men to trade contraband salt with the Tatars beyond Malian Mountain. Though those Tatars were dirt poor, they could still produce some furs, and by trading these in town he could obtain some necessities.

But ever since that blasted Oirat Grand Preceptor raided the border, the merchants in town had stopped coming to collect furs, cutting off that source of income. The fort’s salt was running low, and if he sold more to the Tatars, his own men would be left without. Without salt, the men would lose their strength—and if the desperate Tatars came crawling through the gorge, disaster would follow.

With no income and great expenses ahead, where would he find the silver? How were they to survive the coming days? Better not to think about it—no amount of worry could conjure up money. Niu Qing gave a bitter laugh, shook his head, and bent to draw a bucket of water from the well to wash his face before setting out for town.

This was the only well in the fort. Without it, hundreds would have to fetch water from the Clear Water River several miles away. The well had been dug by his grandfather, Niu Hai, at a cost of nearly three taels of silver and a hundred strings of paper notes—a large sum in those days. Now, with the paper currency so devalued it might as well be waste, the people no longer accepted it, yet the court still included a few notes with every salary. One wonders what those high officials are thinking—can waste paper pass for copper coins?

He had barely raised half a bucket when Junior Officer Wang Dade came running up, panic-stricken. "Sir, something terrible has happened! Dushi Fort has fallen!"

"Dushi Fort has fallen?!" Niu Qing was startled, letting the bucket slip from his hand and spill across the ground. Grabbing Wang Dade, he asked urgently, "When did this happen?"

"Just last night!" Wang Dade was clearly terrified by the news, his face pale with fear.

"Where's the messenger? Bring him to me at once!"

Niu Qing was in a panic—if Dushi was lost, Junzi Fort would stand alone. Should the Tatars attack, the lives of everyone in the fort would be forfeit. He needed to know how Dushi had fallen, how many Tatars had crossed the border, and where they were now.

But Wang Dade replied, "There is no messenger."

Niu Qing was taken aback. "No messenger? Then how did you hear Dushi was lost?"

Wang Dade swallowed. "The defeated troops from Dushi have retreated to our gates!"

"They've retreated to our gates?" Niu Qing was stunned. "How many are there?"

Wang Dade pointed toward the fort entrance. "Several hundred at least. They're clamoring to be let in. I didn't dare open the gates—I came to report to you first."

"Let's go have a look."

Hearing that the defeated soldiers were at the gate, Niu Qing was even more alarmed. He hurriedly led Wang Dade up to the battlements, where dozens of soldiers stood with spears at the ready. Yet their faces showed none of the usual tension when news of Tartar raids came—rather, they craned their necks to peer at the defeated troops below, whispering to each other without a hint of unease.

Niu Qing, preoccupied with the loss of Dushi Fort, paid no heed to his men's behavior. Reaching the parapet, he peered down and saw, sure enough, hundreds of defeated soldiers gathered below, shouting to be let in.

Wang Dade, having been frightened by their claim to be Dushi's defeated troops, had not asked them much at first. Now, he studied them more closely.

After a moment, both commander and junior officer drew back from the parapet, exchanging puzzled glances. Niu Qing muttered, "Do you think these really are the defeated troops from Dushi?"

"They must be," Wang Dade said, pointing out a squad leader among them. "Sir, look, that’s Song Bangde from Mao’er Valley. Just last year he visited our fort. Don’t you remember?"

Niu Qing followed his gesture. Indeed, it was Song Bangde from Mao’er Valley. Scrutinizing the other soldiers, they all appeared Han, with no Tatars among them.

They were Ming soldiers, no doubt. But...

What they saw left Niu Qing at a loss. He dared not jump to conclusions and asked Wang Dade, "Do they look like defeated soldiers to you?"

"Well..." Wang Dade hesitated, for the men outside looked nothing like a beaten force. They were jubilant, shouting cheerfully to be let in. Had they not claimed to have retreated from Dushi, one might think they had just won a great victory.

"Strange," Niu Qing muttered. "To be so cheerful after a defeat—did Dushi really fall?"

Wang Dade had no idea what was going on. Seeing the crowd outside growing rowdy, he asked, "Sir, do we let them in?"

Niu Qing looked again at the "defeated" troops below, uncertain, but finally sighed. "Since they're our men, let them in. We'll question them once they're inside. Otherwise, our heads won't be enough to save us."

Wang Dade nodded in agreement. In the Ming military, those who failed to aid their comrades in battle were executed, as were deserters—and so too were those who refused shelter to defeated troops. If Junzi Fort refused these men, Niu Qing would surely lose his head, and Wang Dade too.

Whatever the truth, now that these men had retreated to their gates, it was best to let them in and sort things out later. They were all on the same side—what was there to fear?

On Wang Dade's order, the soldiers lowered the drawbridge and together unbarred the gates.

...

Author's note: In the early Ming, the Office of Military Affairs was responsible for military appointments, promotions, replacements, pay, garrison equipment, transportation, intelligence, cartography, fuel, and reeds. After the Tumu Crisis, the civil bureaucracy took control of the court, stripping the Office of its powers and transferring them to the Ministry of War. The Office of Military Affairs became a mere honorary title for military officers, as seen with Qi Jiguang in the Jiajing era and Qin Liangyu in the Tianqi era, both holding the title of Left Commander of the Office.