Wind Rises in North America 1625

Chapter 372 The Meridian River (Part 4)
May 20, 1638, Westlake Castle (now Lake Osvego, eight kilometers south of Portland).

The midday sun scorched the dock of Xihubao. A migrant boat slowly approached the shore, making a dull thud as the planks were lowered. More than forty migrants dressed in coarse linen clothes carefully stepped onto the unfamiliar land.

In the crowd, the small and thin Katsuguro tightly gripped his younger sister Sayoko's hand, his rough knuckles turning white from the force, his eyes warily scanning the surroundings.

The eighteen-year-old boy was so thin that his ribs were clearly visible, and under his coarse cloth clothes, one could vaguely see numerous whip marks—the "profound lessons" left by the samurai patrol.

Sayoko was even thinner and smaller than him; the fourteen-year-old looked only six or seven, and her big eyes were filled with unease.

They grew up in a fishing village outside Nagasaki Port. Their father died during the shogunate's suppression, and their mother died when she fell into the sea while trying to escape with them.

Now, they only have each other left.

"Brother, is it really possible to survive here...?" Sayoko asked in a low voice, her voice tinged with unease.

Katsuguro did not answer immediately.

He gazed at the rows of neatly arranged wooden houses in the distance, the smoke from the chimneys drawing soft curves against the blue sky, and the residents dressed in coarse cloth but with rosy complexions.

The sight left him momentarily dazed.

In Japan, farmers are always hunched over, their eyes filled only with hunger and fear.

The people here dare to speak loudly and even greet each other with smiles.

Some residents, upon seeing them, curiously gathered around, sizing up these newcomers from afar.

“At least here… no one will be killed for their religion,” he replied softly, a bittersweet hope in his voice.

"Line up! Everyone get a meal!" A Xinhua immigration officer in a dark blue uniform shouted from atop a wooden crate.

Upon hearing this, Katsuguro instinctively shrank his neck.

In Nagasaki, the shouts of officials were always accompanied by the sound of whips.

But unexpectedly, the young official continued, "...After dinner, go to the warehouse to collect your clothes."

The militiamen on duty on both sides of the line waved wooden sticks to urge the immigrants to move forward in order, not to push or shove, and not to cut in line for food.

Fortunately, the immigrants had already learned the rules during their quarantine period and moved forward silently and slowly.

The food wasn't plentiful; a bowl of corn porridge and two steamed potatoes were the lunch for every new immigrant.

"Brother, it's delicious!" Sayoko took a small bite of the potato, savoring the taste in her mouth and the feeling of fullness as it slid down her esophagus into her stomach.

"Okay, eat up!" Katsuguro swallowed the two potatoes in a few bites, then slurped down the half-bowl of corn porridge.

A few grains of corn still clung to the rough rim of the earthenware bowl. He stuck out his tongue and carefully licked them clean, just as his mother had taught him when he was a child.

"Pfft!" A militiaman holding a stick next to him couldn't help but laugh when he saw him like this.

"If you're done eating, you can go get another bowl. ...Damn it, they're all reincarnated starving ghosts!"

But Katsuguro noticed that although the bearded man was cursing, he personally served Sayoko another half bowl of porridge and gave her an extra potato.

In the afternoon, they were taken to the dormitory.

Inside the log cabin, ten wooden beds covered with hay were neatly arranged.

A woman wearing a headscarf is distributing coarse cloth clothes.

“Women, come this way,” the woman said gently. “Two sets of underwear for each of you, and…”

She lowered her voice and took out several cloth bags from the bottom of the basket, "...menstrual belts."

Sayoko timidly accepted it, and suddenly her eyes reddened.

On the escape ship, she could only make do with tattered rags and was often shunned by other refugees.

Before dawn the next day, the call to reclamation was sounded.

Katsugoro was assigned to a logging team and set off with a dozen or so young men into the forest outside the village.

"Watch closely!" The elderly immigrant leading the group swung his axe to demonstrate, "You must strike along the grain of the wood!"

The sharp axe blade drew a silvery arc in the morning light, and a deep gash immediately appeared on the tree trunk, with wood chips flying everywhere.

Because of his small stature and the fact that logging is a skill-intensive and physically demanding job, Katsuguro was assigned some auxiliary tasks, such as tidying up the felled trees and clearing away the trunks and branches.

Sweat soaked through his newly issued coarse cloth shirt, but strangely, he didn't feel tired.

Instead, I felt a surge of anticipation.

lunch.

Dinner will be served.

There's even a delicious fish soup.

As work wrapped up in the evening, the supervising scribe recorded everyone's workload. When it was Katsuguro's turn, the scribe suddenly asked, "Can you read?"

Katsuguro looked at him blankly, a look of unease on his face.

"Japanese?" The clerk frowned and muttered to himself, "That's troublesome. The Mandarin lesson tonight might be a bit difficult."

"You... come to the barn for class after dinner." The clerk circled a name on the roster. "Also, talk to your roommates more often and learn Chinese as soon as possible... Otherwise, you'll suffer!"

Although Katsuguro couldn't understand what the man was saying, he realized that the man seemed to be teaching him "rules." After putting down the axe, he kept bowing and keeping his head low.

In Japan, one must show such respect when meeting a samurai.

Even worse, when they saw a lord or daimyo, they had to prostrate themselves at a distance, either at the roadside or in the fields, for fear of offending them.

Otherwise, there's a high chance you'll be cut down by the opponent.

However, in New Zealand, it seems that such kneeling is unnecessary.

In the quarantine camp, Xinhua's "master" told all immigrants that no one needed to kneel before officials; a simple bow or a simple salutation would suffice.

Moreover, the "gentlemen" here are all quite amiable, unlike those fierce and menacing warriors who would yell at and kick them at the drop of a hat.

As long as they follow instructions properly, no one here will arbitrarily punish them.

There would be no samurai-like behavior of randomly drawing their swords to kill people.

As Xinhua's "master" once said, this place values ​​the law most, follows rules, and respects reason.

Within Xinhua's borders, everyone is equal, regardless of background or ethnicity; we are all Xinhua people.

What excited every immigrant even more was the promise from Xinhua's "master" that as long as they completed the settlement service for four years, they would be allocated 40 acres of land of their own, as well as a large amount of government financial subsidies (agricultural loans), so that they could settle down and start a business in Xinzhou and live a good life with no worries about food and clothing.

As for agricultural tax or land tax, Xinhua "master" also stipulated that only 15% of the land output would be collected, and there would be no other "exorbitant taxes".

However, given that Xinhua was still in its early stages of development, each immigrant still had to bear the "labor service" conscripted from various places.

However, the government has strict regulations on local conscription and assignment, and there are also certain meal subsidies, so that people will not fall into poverty or bankruptcy as a result.

Those Japanese compatriots who understood a little Chinese were so moved by the policies read out by Xinhua officials that they wept bitterly, some even kneeling down and shouting, "Your Excellency is wise!"

During this period, the Tokugawa Shogunate of Japan made official regulations on land tax, implementing a collection standard of "40% public and 60% private" (i.e., 40% paid to the government and 60% retained by the people).

However, in practice, many vassal states and daimyo would increase the tax rate to "five public and five private".

In some impoverished vassal states, the system of "six public and four private" or "seven public and three private" was even implemented. Farmers' hard-earned income for a year was almost nonexistent, and hunger accompanied them throughout their lives.

No, it should be generation after generation, sons and grandsons.

In addition, the burden on Japanese farmers went far beyond the annual tribute (i.e., main tax) stipulated in the land tax, which consisted of "five public and five private" or "six public and four private" taxes. They also had to pay "miscellaneous taxes," such as field tax, house tax, door and window tax, as well as poll tax and special product tax (such as cloth, sake, oak and hazelnut, beans and hemp, etc.).

As for corvée labor, that was even more burdensome.

Under the rural assistance system, every farmer was required to provide manpower and horses to assist in the transportation of goods at the post stations. If they were unable to complete the task, they would have to pay a high service fee, which would leave them feeling utterly exploited.

There are countless examples of lords and daimyo conscripting farmers without compensation under various pretexts such as road construction and city building.

A typical small-scale farmer (1 cho-bu of land, yielding about 10 koku) would only have enough grain for a family of five to eat 1 he and 3 shovels (about 180 grams) per day after deducting seeds and taxes. This was far from enough to fill their stomachs, and they had to rely on coarse grains, wild vegetables, and tree bark to barely survive.

It can be said that the lives of ordinary Japanese people are among the most miserable in East Asia.

We were hungry almost every day of the year.

Do you really think that those Japanese people who believe in Catholicism are doing it for the sake of their devout faith?
That was nothing more than the lower classes suffering from taxes, corvée labor, and famine, seeking spiritual solace in the doctrines of "equality before God" and "redemption from suffering" preached by the Catholic Church.

On the way back to the camp, Katsuguro saw Sayoko and several other teenagers squatting on the edge of a field, following a woman as she planted vegetables.

The setting sun bathed her smiling face in gold, much like the image of the Virgin Mary her father used to worship in her memory.

At that moment, Katsuguro's heart was filled with warmth and hope.

That night, lying on his bed which smelled of pine, Katsuguro had a strange dream.

In his dream, his father stood in a golden wheat field, waving to him, while his mother, beaming with joy, held a bowl full of food and called for his younger sister to come and eat.

The family was filled with joy and happiness, free from hunger and fear, only boundless bliss.

When he woke up, he found that his pillowcase was soaked.

But this time, it wasn't because of hunger.

It wasn't fear either.

Rather, it was because of the long-lost feeling of emotion and the anticipation for the future.

Outside the window, the gentle morning light of early summer is spreading across the newly cultivated fields.

The shouts of the logging team echoed from afar, mingling with birdsong, reverberating through the Qiongjiang River Valley.
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(End of this chapter)