How can one be Emperor Chongzhen without money?

Chapter 292 Emperor Chongzhen Arrives, No More Grain Taxes

The autumn wind of the fifth year of the Chongzhen reign swept across the Central Plains, carrying the earthy smell and a faint stench of decay.

The emperor's entourage marched south along the official road, and the further they went, the more desolate the scene became. The fields on either side of the road were still submerged in yellow water, the remaining crop stalks standing stiff and black. Collapsed houses leaned precariously, like piles of rotten bones scattered on the ground. The roadside was crowded with people—men and women, young and old—all ragged, emaciated, their eyes empty and lifeless. The little children's heads seemed unusually large; nestled in their mothers' arms, they didn't even have the strength to cry. Seeing the emperor's carriage approach, the crowd stirred slightly, stretching out their withered, stick-like hands, making hoarse sounds in their throats, their cries indistinct.

Emperor Chongzhen sat in his carriage, the curtain still drawn, his eyes fixed on the scene outside, his face taut and ashen. He knew that the current flood was just the beginning, and that each year to come would be more difficult than the last.

In the sixth year of the Chongzhen Emperor's reign, a severe drought struck the north, described as a once-in-a-millennium event, compounded by swarms of locusts! The seventh year saw the continuation of the severe drought and locust plagues! The eighth year was the same, with drought and locusts returning! The ninth year saw continued drought and locust plagues, further compounded by the plague! The tenth year saw a slight improvement, but the eleventh year brought a severe locust plague! The twelfth year was marked by a severe drought! The thirteenth year was another severe drought, a once-in-a-millennium event, with rivers drying up, wells drying up, and the land parched for miles, accompanied by locust plagues and epidemics. However, this series of droughts didn't mean the heavens stopped raining; rain did fall, but it tended to concentrate, with the seventh, eleventh, and thirteenth years experiencing rapid shifts between drought and flood, particularly severe in the Huai River region. Xuzhou was flooded twice within five years, once for three years (the current flood) and once for two years until the thirteenth year. Sizhou was completely submerged in Hongze Lake!

Gao Guiying, her hand on her waist knife, walked beside the carriage, her brows furrowed. She had seen many such scenes of destitution in northern Shaanxi, but seeing them in this prosperous central plains still made her heart skip a beat.

The officials from the south, including Qian Qianyi and Shi Fenglai, were deathly pale. They would occasionally cover their mouths and noses with their sleeves and dare not look too closely.

The imperial carriage arrived at the territory of Kaifeng Prefecture but did not enter the city. The emperor directly ordered someone to lead the way to the largest soup kitchen outside the south gate.

It was called a porridge kitchen, but it was really just a few dilapidated thatched huts built on the riverbank. Several large pots were set up, with weak flames burning underneath. Thin soup sloshed around in the pots, so clear that you could almost see your reflection in it, with only a few scattered grains of rice floating on top.

There was so little food, yet the area outside the shed was packed with people, a dense, dark mass. Soldiers wielded whips and shouted desperately, barely managing to hold back the ever-surging crowd. For a bowl of thin porridge, some people were pushed to the ground and never got up again.

Emperor Chongzhen alighted from his carriage and walked to a large cauldron. The clerk in charge knelt on the ground, his head banging loudly. Chongzhen ignored him, reached for a spoon, and stirred the broth. The spoon felt light against the bottom of the pot. He scooped up half a spoonful, looked at the thin, watery broth, and the veins on the back of his hand throbbed.

Governor Yang He of Henan quickly stepped forward, his voice trembling: "Your Majesty... there are just too many disaster victims, and the grain... the grain supplies are insufficient..."

Emperor Chongzhen didn't turn around. With a flick of his wrist, he threw the spoon back into the pot with a crisp "clang." He slowly turned around, his gaze sweeping over the large group of officials behind him, dressed in red and purple robes—Grand Secretaries and Ministers from Beijing, princes and nobles of the Ming Dynasty, and local officials, not one was missing.

"You saw it all clearly?" His voice was terribly hoarse. "These are the people of the Ming Dynasty. They eat things that are worse than pig swill."

No one dared to speak; only the wind howled.

Emperor Chongzhen pointed to the dense crowd outside: "Tens of thousands of mouths are waiting for rice to be cooked. How many can be saved with just a few mouthfuls of thin porridge? The people who starve to death could pile up into a mountain!" He took a deep breath, as if suppressing a great deal of anger: "Distributing porridge can only save us temporarily, not forever! The fields are flooded, the houses are washed away, what will we do then? Are we just going to sit here and wait to die?"

He suddenly turned his head and stared at Yang He, the governor of Henan: "How much grain is left in the official granaries of Kaifeng?"

Yang He's legs went weak, and he almost knelt down: "Your Majesty, the official granaries... have about 30% left, but there are too many disaster victims, and they... won't last more than a few days..."

"They won't last more than a few days?" Chongzhen sneered. "So you're just going to watch them starve to death?"

He stopped looking at Yang He and turned his gaze to everyone: "Come with me, all of you."

After saying that, he turned and walked towards the half-collapsed river god temple next to the soup kitchen. Sunlight filtered through the temple roof, and the clay statue of the river god, missing half its head, coldly watched the group of uninvited guests.

The officials exchanged glances, their hearts pounding, and quickly followed. The temple was small and packed with people. The Prince of Qin, the Prince of Tang, the Duke of Yansheng, the Duke of Dingguo, and other nobles and members of the imperial family stood at the front, while the Grand Secretaries and Ministers were squeezed in the middle, leaving the local officials to huddle in the shadows by the entrance.

Emperor Chongzhen stood beneath the dilapidated statue, his robe splattered with mud. He neither sat down nor offered it to anyone else.

“You have all seen the places with your own eyes.” He skipped all formalities. “The situation is worse than I thought. Henan is like this, and Shaanxi, Shanxi, Shandong, and southern Beizhili are not much better.”

He paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the surprised and uncertain faces of the crowd.

"Simply distributing porridge won't work. We need to find a way to get the people back on their feet and resume production."

He glanced at Wei Zhongxian. Wei Zhongxian immediately took out a cloth bag from his pocket, held it out with both hands, and handed it over.

"These are buckwheat seeds." Chongzhen reached out and grabbed a handful, spreading them in his palm. The grains were small and dark brown. "This stuff has a short growing season. Plant it now in September, and in about two months, before the ground freezes, you can harvest a crop. The yield isn't high, but it's enough to stave off hunger; it's a life-saving food."

He poured the wheat grains back into the bag and handed it to Hou Xun, the Vice Minister of Revenue, who was standing next to him.

"Hou Xun, you are from Henan... You cannot ignore the disaster in your hometown. The several thousand bushels of buckwheat seeds I brought are for you to distribute to the disaster-stricken prefectures and counties in Henan. Distribute them free of charge to the disaster victims and organize them to rush to plant them!"

"Your Majesty, I obey! On behalf of the million disaster victims of Henan, I thank Your Majesty for your divine grace!" Hou Xun hurriedly took the bag, feeling as if it weighed a ton. Chongzhen's gaze fell upon the gray sky outside the temple gate. He knew perfectly well that the next few years would be difficult.

He withdrew his gaze, his eyes sharpening as he scanned the entire scene: "However, simply distributing seeds for the people to replant is not enough!"

He suddenly pointed to the dense crowd of starving people outside: "You have all read history books, you should know why the world was in chaos at the end of the Qin Dynasty? The direct cause was 'the garrison soldiers cried out, and Hangu Pass fell'! Why did Chen Sheng and Wu Guang rise up in rebellion? It was because the heavy rain caused them to miss the deadline, and arriving late meant certain death, while rebellion might save them! Were they rebels? They were ordinary people who couldn't survive!"

"And then there were the Yellow Turban rebels at the end of the Eastern Han Dynasty! How could Zhang Jiao gather a million followers? It wasn't because his sorcery was so powerful, but because of a great plague and years of famine. The government not only didn't provide relief, but also increased taxes! People resorted to cannibalism. If they didn't follow the Yellow Turban path, they would be on the verge of death!"

He surveyed the crowd, his tone resolute:

"Nine out of ten rebels recorded in history were originally good people driven to desperation! Today, these beggars before me are the future Chen Sheng and Wu Guang of the Ming Dynasty! They are the Yellow Turban rebels who have not yet raised their flags!"

These words were like a boulder thrown into water. Qian Qianyi and the others turned ashen-faced, wanting to retort, their lips moved, but no sound came out.

Chongzhen gave them no chance to catch their breath, and continued:
"Since I ascended the throne, Shaanxi, Shanxi, Henan, Beizhili, and Shandong have suffered from disasters year after year, each year more severe than the last... Those people who have suffered from the disasters have lost all hope. They are just short of someone standing up and shouting, 'The Blue Heaven is dead, the Yellow Heaven shall rise!'"

His voice grew louder and louder with each sentence:
"Therefore, we must give them hope, we must let them know that I, and the Ming Dynasty, still care about the people, about all living beings!" He took a deep breath, and with all his might, he spoke each word clearly, each syllable striking everyone's ears:
"Issue my decree!"

Every official, regardless of rank, tensed up.

"In the five provinces of Henan, Shaanxi, Shanxi, Shandong, and Beizhili, all land, whether official or private, will be exempt from grain taxes for three years!"

These words were like a thunderclap, rolling through the dilapidated temple.

"From today until the autumn harvest in the eighth year of Chongzhen's reign, farmers in these five provinces will be exempt from all land taxes and levies! Military households will also no longer be required to pay grain taxes."

The temple was deathly silent; even the wind outside seemed to have stopped.

Hou Xun and other officials from the north were first dumbfounded, then their faces lit up with wild joy. They knelt down with a thud and cried out, “Your Majesty! Your Majesty’s grace! The people of the five provinces are saved! On behalf of millions of common people, we kowtow to thank Your Majesty for your grace!” They kowtowed repeatedly.

The faces of Qian Qianyi, Shi Fenglai, and the other officials from the south instantly drained of color. Qian Qianyi's fingers trembled violently; he wanted to say something, but no sound came out.

Emperor Chongzhen looked at the chaotic scene below, his face expressionless, and his cold voice once again silenced all the noise:
"This decree is not a favor!"

Everyone looked up and stared at him in astonishment.

"This is self-preservation! It's also about preventing future troubles!" Chongzhen's gaze swept across everyone's face like a knife. "By exempting them from land taxes, we are cutting off the future source of soldiers for rebels! Giving them a way to survive is to destroy the foundation of the bandits!"

He took a deep breath and almost shouted it out:

"The imperial court is currently out of money! But I tell you, and I tell the people of the world, as long as people are still alive and land is still there, there is still hope!"

"This decree exempting grain from taxes shall be issued to the five northern provinces, engraved as a proclamation, and posted in every village and town to inform every citizen!"

"The emperor has arrived, no more taxes are due!"

"I don't want their grain! I just want them to survive! Get the land cultivated! Leave a breath for the Ming Dynasty!"

His last few words were almost shouted, echoing in the dilapidated temple.

"Your Majesty is wise!" Hou Xun and the others kowtowed again, their voices filled with the excitement of surviving a calamity.

Qian Qianyi and the others also realized what was happening and knelt down blankly.

Emperor Chongzhen stopped looking at them and instructed Xu Yingyuan: "Draft an edict. Affix the seal. Send it by express courier, six hundred li away, to five provinces to announce it to the world."

(End of this chapter)