白話經濟統計家教網（幫按讚）

 

Reference:  https://ctext.org/wiki.pl?if=gb&chapter=8410005  (維基中國哲學書電子化計劃)

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📘 5-Minute Lazy Guide to "Trapped in Jiangning" A Memoir of Sorrow and Survival During the Taiping Rebellion  (思痛記)

Subtitle:

👉 “I Ran Too Slow, So My Entire Family of 40 Got Wiped Out” — by Li Xiaochi

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🧨 Chapter 1: Waited Until the Last Minute — Whole Family Deleted in One Go

Our protagonist, Li Xiaochi, and his extended family lived in Jiangning (modern-day Nanjing).

As the Taiping Rebellion forces closed in, neighbors started fleeing.
But the Li family? Still waiting.
“Maybe the city won’t fall that soon?” they thought.

Then on March 13, Uncle finally said:
“Maybe... we should go?”

Too late. By the afternoon of March 15, hell broke loose:

• Military camp burned to the ground

• Soldiers scattered

• Refugees running in chaos

• Women dragged away

• Men slaughtered

Li was hiding in a cave in the rain, surrounded by screams and corpses.

You think this is Snowpiercer? Nope — it’s actual history.

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🔥 Chapter 2: Got Captured? Think Slavery? Nah — Welcome to Hell’s Training Camp

After two days in hiding, Li got caught and dragged into the rebel sorting zone.

Imagine a mix of beauty pageant, conscript draft, and forced conversion all in one.

• Pretty women? Sent straight to the "Heavenly King’s" harem

• Kids? It’s like Disney turned into a cult — forced to sing praise songs and become slave-disciples

• Elderly? Discarded immediately

• Able-bodied men? Drafted on the spot

The camp looked more like a horror show than a military camp:
People beaten to death on the spot, fingers chopped off as warnings, walls of corpses —
No one dared cry; crying might get you picked next.

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🧟 Chapter 3: How the Protagonist Survived? Mastering the Art of Playing Dumb

Li wasn’t a soldier, nor noble — his one skill? Literacy.

Just as he was about to get assigned to death labor, someone noticed:
“Wait, this guy can write?”

Instant upgrade: admin assistant.

He immediately activated his survival combo:

• Play deaf: Pretend not to hear anything

• Play mute: Shake head, no words

• Play crazy: When others sing hymns, he dances like a broken robot

By pretending better than anyone else, he survived several roll calls, transfers, and purges —
Finally finding a chance to slip away when the army shifted positions.

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💣 Chapter 4: The Taiping Army’s “Religious Utopia” Was Just Brutality in Disguise

At first glance, the Taiping camp looked holy:

• Hymns

• Prayers

• Sermons

But underneath? A totalitarian brainwashing machine.

• Women were “taught devotion” — or martyred if they refused

• Men “fought for God” — meaning frontline cannon fodder

• Kids “praised divine love” — aka future expendables in training

Li watched silently, saying nothing, just memorizing everything.

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⚠️ Content Warnings:

• Graphic violence

• Mass killings

• Child exploitation

• Sexual slavery

• Religious extremism

• Psychological trauma

• Survival under totalitarian control

📘 Story Summary: Trapped in Jiangning" A Memoir of Sorrow and Survival During the Taiping Rebellion (思痛記)

Author: Li Gui (李圭)
Published: Guangxu 6th Year (1880), 12th Month

Trapped in Jiangning" A Memoir of Sorrow and Survival During the Taiping Rebellion(《思痛記》) is a deeply personal and vividly detailed memoir written by Li Gui, a civilian who survived the horrors of warfare and social collapse during the late Qing dynasty, particularly the fall of Hangzhou and its occupation by rebel forces. The text is part survival narrative, part moral reflection. Li documents his experiences with starvation, captivity, loss of friends and family, and the collapse of societal order.

More than just a record of his suffering, Li frames the work as a warning to future generations: that inaction, complacency, and moral blindness in times of crisis lead not only to personal ruin but national disaster. He mourns not only the dead but the living who failed to act, and views his own survival as both a burden and a responsibility to remember.

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⚠️ Content Warning

This work contains vivid and distressing descriptions of:

• Death from starvation and disease

• Civilian executions and summary killings

• Psychological trauma and despair

• Cannibalism and exposure of corpses

• Violent repression and military brutality

• Constant fear, hiding, and moral dilemmas under rebel occupation

Reader discretion is advised. The text may be unsuitable for sensitive readers or young audiences. It is most appropriate for those studying historical trauma, war literature, or Chinese social history.

 

📅 Timeline of the Escape

• Start date: 13th day of the intercalary 3rd month, Xianfeng 10 (May 13, 1860)
  According to section 10 of the text: "逮閏三月望日大營再潰……是日午後起程……" (“On the 15th day of the intercalary month, the camp collapsed again… we set out that afternoon”), the escape began on May 13, 1860.

• End date: Around mid-July, Tongzhi 1 (approximately August 17, 1862)
  In section 6, it states: "至是更一二王屋貴忙……夏江寄若干調傾米者變積藉資成行……" and at the end of the section: "出抵上海，慶更生焉" ("Reached Shanghai, celebrating rebirth"). It also mentions arriving at Nanxun on the 9th and reaching Shanghai on the 17th, placing the end of the journey around August 17, 1862.

📍 Escape Route

• Starting location: Yongfeng Township, just outside Jubao Gate, Nanjing, Jiangsu
  The text says, "余家住聚寶門外永豐鄉" (“My family lived outside the Jubao Gate in Yongfeng”), indicating the escape began in the suburbs of Nanjing.

• Destination: Shanghai
  The end of the text reads, "百日出抵上海，慶更生焉" (“After a hundred days, arrived in Shanghai, celebrating survival”), confirming Shanghai as the final destination.

⏳ Total Duration

• From May 13, 1860 to mid-August 1862

• Total duration of the escape: approximately 2 years and 3 months

 

1. Estimated Start and End Points of the Journey & Distance

• Starting point: Yongfeng Township, outside Jubao Gate, Nanjing (now in eastern suburbs of Nanjing)

• Destination: Shanghai (modern-day urban area)

According to modern geography:

• Straight-line distance: About 270 km

• Actual escape route (passing through Jurong, Danyang, Jintan, Shimen, Hangzhou, Jiaxing, Wuzhen, Nanxun, Huzhou, Suzhou, etc.): Estimated at 600–800 km

Due to detours, retreats, and prolonged stops, the total cumulative distance can be roughly estimated at around 700 km.

⏳2. Duration: Approximately 27 months (from May 1860 to August 1862)

🧮3. Is it reasonable? Let’s calculate:
Assuming a total journey of 700 km over 27 months (about 820 days):

• Average walking distance per day = 700 ÷ 820 ≈ 0.85 km/day

This number is extremely low — implying that most of the time was spent hiding or pausing, not actively traveling.

✅4. Conclusion: Very reasonable, even conservative
Li Gui and his family were not walking constantly. Instead:

• They hid many times (in village houses, temples, alleyways)

• Were captured and held by bandits on several occasions

• Suffered illness, starvation, and route reversals

• Waited long for chances to escape

• Traveled with elderly, women, and children

Even under 5 km per day would be perfectly realistic.

📌 If we calculate only the active travel days?
Assume they actually moved on about 50 days (excluding long delays):

• Average = 700 ÷ 50 ≈ 14 km/day

This matches typical refugee walking speeds, especially given:

• No transportation

• Traveling with dependents

• Extremely dangerous routes

📌 Extreme case comparisons

• Jewish refugees during WWII: 10–15 km/day

• Red Army Long March: about 20 km/day (organized military)

✅ Final Conclusion:
Li Gui’s escape from Nanjing to Shanghai — covering ~700 km over 2 years and 3 months — is entirely reasonable.
It was not a continuous march, but a struggle for survival, marked by hiding, illness, captivity, and loss.

 

🗺️ Li Gui's Escape Route – Historical vs. Modern Geography (with Directions & Distances)

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📌 Key Route Characteristics

• Escape from Rebel-Occupied Hangzhou:
  Li’s journey begins within rebel-controlled Hangzhou during the late Qing dynasty upheaval, especially during the small-scale civil conflicts and post-Taiping instability.

• River Crossing at Qiantang River:
  A dangerous crossing marked by chaos, overpacked ferries, and panic. Reflects both the physical and psychological hazard of escape.

• Wandering Coastal Villages:
  Refuge was sought in scattered villages, often unprotected and vulnerable, showing both the desperation and resilience of displaced civilians.

• Wuzhen as a Recovery Point:
  A brief recovery at a silk merchant's house in Wuzhen illustrates the network of kinship and literati assistance.

• Night Boat to Shanghai:
  Final leg done stealthily by night, through inner waterways and tributaries, avoiding rebel patrols. Travel was treacherous: passengers could not even relieve themselves without disembarking to avoid capsizing.

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🧭 Total Distance Estimate:

• Land Travel: ~150–200 km

• Water Travel: ~120 km via Grand Canal branches

• Total Estimated Journey: ~250–300 km over 100+ days, often on foot or by hidden boat routes.

 

Preface

Why was "Record of Griefful Reflections" written? It was composed by Magistrate Li of Xiaochi to recall and document the sequence of dangers and hardships he experienced in those turbulent years. Alas! Can such pain truly be expressed in words?

In the year Gui-Chou of the Xianfeng reign (1853), when the rebel forces captured Nanjing, a murderous atmosphere surged to the heavens, and the sunlight turned dim and mournful. Millions of innocent lives were like sparrows in a snare, like fish in a pot—left to be ravaged and trampled at will. The pain of that time was universal: from high-ranking officials and noble gentry down to the humblest peasants, no one was spared. Everyone lived in torment, yet few even realized it was pain; many only sought a swift death as release. People swallowed their cries and stifled their sobs, not daring to voice their suffering. Sudden torment left them stunned and unconscious—how could they even recognize their pain?

Those fortunate enough to survive, having fallen into enemy hands, were subjected to all manner of humiliation and abuse—living each day in fresh agony. All who witnessed or endured such scenes saw cruelty in countless forms, and dangers emerged at every turn. Some even yearned for death, finding it preferable to such misery. Their wounds were deep, their trauma profound. Only after escaping, at long last, could they weep freely, suddenly aware that their heads remained on their shoulders, their limbs barely intact. To reflect upon it now is unbearable—it is as if the pain remains fresh.

Alas! Can such pain be truly described?

The pens of scholars, when writing with sorrow, often shake heaven and earth and move ghosts and spirits to tears. And so it is that many may believe the writing, but not the events themselves. Wu Cheng once wrote, "Blood flowed so deep it floated pestles"; Mencius dismissed this as mere rhetoric. But if one has personally lived through such ordeals and can recount them with precise detail—how can that not be believed?

I myself endured this great pain, yet for a long time dared not speak of it. When the city fell in Gui-Chou (1853), my entire household of forty souls perished. Only I and two of my uncles—Shao Yuan and Xi Xian—survived our suicide attempts. We were dragged out from among corpses, faces swollen, necks red, hearts broken. Enduring the pain, I buried what family members I could. From then on, we were tormented by wolves and bandits, facing blades, fire, arrows, stones, gunfire, stampeding men and horses—terror upon terror. We suffered theft, extortion, flight, burdens, freezing, starvation, wounds—every torment imaginable. We lived a thousand deaths to gain a single thread of life.

The author and I suffered alike. Even the rebels' use of women to entice and deceive us—we both experienced this. But where I differed was in two matters: I refused to take their counterfeit examination and rejected the fake official post forced upon me. In this, I stood alone.

Alas! Can such pain be truly described?

For long I could not bear to speak of it. But now, having read this volume, its every word pierces my heart. The old pain rises again, and I weep uncontrollably. What I could not say before, the author has now said for me. One statement from me is enough to attest to the truth of his words. Let all who read this understand: this is no exaggeration. All who once wanted to speak but could not, will find their feelings encompassed in these pages. Nothing more need be said.

If the accounts are credible, then the sorrow expressed in this writing is surely authentic—utterly vivid, shaking spirits, and stirring ghosts. Though this is not my book, it is written for me. How can I remain silent?

—Written by fellow townsman Huang Siyong,
in the ninth lunar month, autumn of the thirteenth year of Guangxu (1887),
at the Zhi Zhi Xuan studio in Beijing.

 

One must be unmoved by fortune or calamity, by life or death, in order to withstand suffering. And one must have a resolute mind, clearly discern the situation, and not act rashly if one is to escape disaster—and perhaps even achieve something through it. But such qualities—are they within the reach of those merely bold and outwardly upright, whom others dare not approach?

They say that Mr. Li of Jinling, called Xiaochi, was such a man—bold, upright, and unapproachable. Yet I say, this is not quite so. He is, rather, a man with an unassuming heart and a love for learning. He does not judge others by outward refinement or worldly manners. So why claim he is “unapproachable”? In truth, it is precisely because he refuses to judge by appearances or court the world's favor that such misunderstanding arises. This, indeed, is lamentable.

When Li was trapped among the Yellow-Turban rebels and the Green-Capped bandits, he endured thirty-two full months of peril and extremity. During that time, he was not only tested by danger, but also tempted by what the world calls “great pleasures.” Yet in all his actions, he remained upright, never deviating. In the end, he preserved his life and escaped disaster. That is no small feat.

To be caught in a net and pass through blades, to escape doom as if like the butcher Pao Ding dissecting an ox—with blade gliding effortlessly between the joints—and to do so at little more than twenty years of age, I fear that even those famed for their boldness and fortitude might not manage it so well.

In the spring of Dingchou year (1857), when my adoptive father and I were still in mourning, Mr. Li—then only nineteen—had just returned from afar, after a thousand-mile journey. We spoke of his writings, and I found his words unusually moving. Though I, a drifting soul dwelling in desolate marshes, clumsy and shallow as I was, he did not disdain me. He sincerely sought counsel and refinement—even in small matters. It is rare to find such a person.

This autumn, the “Record of Griefful Reflections” has been published. It recounts, with great urgency, the suffering of his family and his own peril beginning in Gengshen year (1860), and his eventual escape in Renxu autumn (1862). I read it in detail. Alas! From the uprising in Daoguang Gengxu (1850) to the final suppression in Tongzhi Yichou (1865), more than fifteen years passed. Across ten provinces, sixteen prefectures, and countless counties, over 600 fell to rebel hands.

As for those who were trapped within the cities—how many lives were lost? Tens of millions perhaps. The emaciated and helpless corpses lay scattered, crisscrossing the streets. Those turned to ashes or drowned in blood cannot be numbered. The few who survived bore witness to all this.

Yet, now that peace has returned, how few are those who will speak of that pain with clarity and depth? The author must be praised for taking the lead. When rebels tried to coerce him to marry a captured woman surnamed Liu, they used sweet words and seductive tricks—but he stood firm, treating life and death, fortune and misfortune, with utter clarity. He did not panic, did not waver—what integrity is this!

Though caught in a snare, he sent the woman home. Though under the blade, he spoke with reason. Though captured by rebels, he dispelled their savagery through upright conduct. He wrote letters to admonish them on righteousness, warning them of the consequences of rebellion and urging them to reflect on right and wrong, to change their ways. His heart was resolute, his understanding clear. Only such a man could act—and survive—as he did.

And now some still say, “He is unapproachable”? Surely not!

This record, I fear, is but “grief after the pain is past.” Yet one must not view it merely as a tale of loyalty and sorrow. Mr. Li’s uprightness must be recognized. I, for one, wish that he always maintains the same spirit as when he faced calamity—ever mindful, ever vigilant. Who knows how far he may go in the future?

So I offer these humble words as a preface to his work.

—Respectfully written by Gao Ding of Renhe,
In the eighth month of the autumn of the fifth year of Guangxu (1879),
While a guest in Boshang, upon reading "Record of Griefful Reflections."

 

Jiangchang – by Li Gui of Xiaochi

Quánlíng (present-day Nanjing) has long been the crown of the southern frontier, its majesty renowned since ancient times. Not only so—it has been, since the early dynasties, the imperial capital of many rulers. Thus, when the imperial court faced difficulties, it naturally made this place the seat of military governance. Commanders opened their headquarters here; generals established garrisons. Compared with other provinces, it received even more reverence and protection.

During the campaign seasons, tax burdens rose. Jiujing, Anqing—riding the currents downstream—were considered part of the defensive perimeter. Yet in the end, they were all disgraced, unable to repel the advancing enemy. The rebels pushed through Weiyang in the east and camped at Makou in the west—just like two wings of a fierce bird, encircling the city. In the past, they had been dismissed as little more than "mosquitoes and dogs," but now they struck like thunder.

Marshal Xiang Rong, Lord Zhongwu, once led troops eastward to intercept the enemy and stationed at Qiuyue. General Han Ziling advanced to seal the key passes, preventing the rebels from breaking through. Unfortunately, villages far from the city were the first to suffer.

In the sixth year of Xianfeng (1856), in the fifth month, heavy rebel forces swept across the river and descended upon Danyang. Zhongwu died in battle. Though the imperial court quickly appointed a new field marshal, Zhang Guoli (Governor-General Zhang) was named as the deputy commander. Zhang was a seasoned general. His tactics succeeded—he recaptured Lishui, recovered Jurong, and took back Zhenjiang, pushing onward past Nanjing to reclaim old encampments.

In Xianfeng year ten (1860), during the first month, he retook Jiujiang and captured the Upper and Lower Guans (passes) of Nanjing. His bold and loyal feats truly stood as the pinnacle of all operations in Jiangnan. Yet, because he had once served the rebels and risen through their ranks, his deeds were suspect. Those who had known Xiang Rong feared this change in command.

At the time, the armies stationed at Jiangnan were achieving repeated victories. From east to west of Zhejiang, rich and poor alike believed triumph was at hand. Yet they failed to see that the danger of a three-pronged attack was imminent.

Alas! My family lived just outside the Jubao Gate, in Yongfeng Village, some fifty li from the city. As the poem says, “Xiazhuang is surrounded by mountains and water”—long praised as a peaceful land. Our clan had lived there for many generations. When the great encampments collapsed, roving bands of rebels soon arrived and harassed the area. Thankfully, having received warning days ahead, we evacuated in time and avoided catastrophe. The rebels feigned a policy of “comforting the people,” to deceive the ignorant commoners.

On the intercalary third month, full moon, the camps collapsed again. Generals He and Zhang retreated to defend Danyang. Zhang died in battle, and fierce rebels inside and outside the city emerged, pillaging without restraint. My home was finally caught in the disaster. I deeply regretted not having fled earlier in the fifth month.

Earlier, the two generals had nearly completed their encirclement of Nanjing. The rebels, unable to obtain food, were in disarray. Victory seemed within reach. Cavalry were ready to sweep them away. But cunning rebel leaders plotted a strategy akin to “besieging Wei to rescue Zhao.” Thus, the false King of Loyalty Li Xiucheng, false King Li Shixian, and Deputy King Yang Fuqing each led over 100,000 troops from Zhejiang’s coastal regions into Hangzhou.

Urgent requests for aid came daily, and the Jiangnan forces were split to respond. As the siege force weakened, provisions also grew scarce—disbursed only once every 45 days. The troops’ morale began to waver. Commander De, out of mercy, hesitated to act decisively. Meanwhile, the rebels, emboldened by their success, marched northward from Yuhang, Changxing, and Huzhou, seizing eastern cities.

Jurong and Shen Shui fell. The enemy pushed toward Linling Pass. The false King of Bravery Chen Yucheng pressed on even further—

 

Crossing the Yangtze at Jiangpei – A Fragment from Li Gui’s Recollections

When the Jiangpei forces crossed the Yangtze and moved southward, on the 7th day of the intercalary third month, chaos erupted in the Grand Encampment (Dàyíng). My family had originally planned to flee to Chunkou, as directed by the former commander. But many people hesitated, uncertain, and did not act. On the 13th, my uncles finally resolved to gather our belongings and head east of the Grand Encampment, intending to cross the river at Longtan.

That day, we set out in the afternoon. Leading our group were a few loyal servants and elders. Among us were over 40 people, including young children. After traveling fifteen li, we arrived at the foot of Tianyin Mountain, where our elder relative Qingshan of the Cai clan from Shandong had temporarily settled. That spot was over thirty li from the encampment.

At the time, the weather turned ominous. A massive thunderstorm struck; our clothes were soaked through, and we could go no further. While we tried to eat a simple meal, we saw flames suddenly rise from the northeast corner, with loud cries and uproar echoing all around. Refugees from near the camp flooded toward us; their cries filled the wilderness. We urgently asked for news—they said the Grand Encampment had been overrun, Longtan had been blocked by the rebels, and all escape routes had been cut off.

That night, none of us could sleep. We sat facing one another in tears. One of the young women even contemplated suicide. We pleaded with her until she relented.

At dawn, we had no plan. The women all said, “If we must die, let it be for the country, not at the hands of rebels.” Some wished to cross back to the north bank of the river, but by nightfall, those paths were already closed. No way remained to summon the others. When an alarm was raised, each person grabbed the old and the young, trying to flee wherever they could.

Some, with children in tow, moved southward. But the muddy fields were deep, and the roads impassable. When we finally reached home, we found it in chaos. Flames lit up the four corners of the sky; the terror was overwhelming. Some women were seized or abducted. Others emerged, disheveled and shamed. We could not stop them. All we could do was cry out and wail.

On the 15th, the rebels arrived en masse. My uncles, cousins, and I fled into the tall grass fields, only to be discovered again and scattered. I returned home, only to find that the women, children, and servants had all either died or gone missing.

The only survivors were my grandfather, and a few younger siblings—but even they were weak, barely alive, too exhausted to cry.

That night, we searched for the bodies of the women. We eventually found:

• My great-uncle's wife, Lady Xu;

• My elder aunt, Lady Yang;

• My mother, Lady Zhu;

• My uncle’s wife, Lady Bi;

• The younger wives: Lady Qian, Lady Chen, and Lady Wang (of the Eight Banners clan);

• My cousin Mao's wife;

• Several aunts and sisters-in-law...

Altogether, the women who died numbered nearly eighteen. As for my elder brothers, at least one or two had also perished, though the details could not be fully confirmed. My grief was overwhelming—I wept blood.

Not only could we not give them proper burials, but we also could not even console the surviving elders and young ones. From day to night, we were numb with sorrow.

On the 16th, we believed the rebels would soon return in greater numbers. Hiding in the fields was no longer safe. Together with my uncles, we helped the old and carried the young to seek refuge elsewhere.

By chance, we found a thatched house, where my fifth uncle, Xia Wuling, and two others were already hiding. We took shelter in the five-room west-facing attic, piling our luggage and belongings behind the door, using bundles of firewood and tools as a barricade. Altogether, we had hidden more than one hundred chests of items there.

Because the house stood in a remote and quiet place, we thought perhaps the rebels wouldn’t find us.

That day, those who had seen the rebels said they had passed by, and not yet discovered our location. We thought: "If they leave in a few days, perhaps we might survive after all."

But then, my fourth uncle, Pu Ping, decided to go outside to investigate...

 

Upon receiving alarming news, we quietly moved aside to hide behind the stair platform. I also wanted to go out to look for relatives who had taken refuge with us, but my third uncle, Haifeng, sternly rebuked me: “You don’t even know whether you’ll live or die yourself—how can you still think about searching for others?”

Before his words were finished, we suddenly heard whistling and shouts from outside—the rebels had arrived.

Upstairs and down, they rushed and searched as if a thunder chariot was rolling through. Not long after, we heard that in the fifth courtyard, behind the ancestral hall, our relatives had been discovered. Great cries and screams rose from there—our ancestral home was now laid bare before the invaders.

The rebels dragged people out and beat them savagely, demanding silver: “If you live in such a big house, how can there be no silver?” Amidst sobs, one rebel suddenly raised a knife and chopped down with a loud yell, and all fell silent.

My uncles, cousins, and I were already trembling in soul and spirit, our intestines tied in knots. We could do nothing but remain kneeling, waiting for whatever would come next.

By dusk, we heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs to the fourth floor. From a crack in the wall adjoining my room, I could see the rebels searching every space for several minutes. Then one of them came out to the doorway and said, “There must be someone in here.” His accent was not local.

Soon, several rebels rushed in and dragged open the alley door. They stormed in, cloaked in red and embroidered clothing, looking fierce and terrifying. None of us knew where to flee.

But strangely, they didn’t strike us right away. Instead, they shouted, “Come out! Out!” Then they herded us outside and made us line up. Still, they did not kill us immediately. They began by identifying the men—those with tied-up hair—and bound them together with ropes, warning us: “Don’t move. Move, and you’ll die.”

Then one of their leaders came forward, speaking softly. But this was not mercy—it was just the beginning.

They climbed the roof beams, broke through ceilings, and opened up the whole alley, exposing every room. They saw the chests piled high—nearly full. It seemed they wanted to call in other rebels but hesitated, perhaps unwilling to share the loot.

One drew a short knife and, using it like a flute, began prying and flipping through the gold and silver, wrapping what he could around his waist. Then they selected complete bolts of fine silk and allowed some damaged ones to be bundled as “extras.”

They forced each of us to carry one bundle on our backs.

While being led through the alley, my uncle’s son Lin secretly untied his ropes and pushed me and my brothers forward to escape. But we dared not move. My uncle quickly rushed downstairs to hide under the bed in our fifth uncle’s room. Because of the crowd, the rebels didn’t notice and thus he survived.

But my cousin Lishi Tian and I were seized by the rebels and dragged downstairs.

At that time, our ancestral hall had already been ransacked. My elder uncle Junzhou had been killed. The ground was soaked with blood, corpses strewn everywhere. Doors and windows were smashed; nothing remained intact. Silence hung in the air—desolate and grim.

I saw faces of men and women, all covered in dust and ash, yellowed and lifeless. I could not even tell who was who.

From above, the rebels shouted and herded several villagers—around fifty to sixty people—into a line. Some were elderly, some young, their hair bound or threaded with long cords, leading them like cattle. One rebel said to another: “Brother, even today we’re still getting fresh ones!”

Among themselves, the rebels called each other “brother.” One woman surnamed Liang cried out: “New captives! More slaves for you to use!” The rebels laughed, showing no mercy. Some even knelt before the Buddha statues, saying, “Brother, make this one yours.” The “new brother” agreed, and the captive was taken.

A rebel shouted, “Only four officers left! Sell the rest quickly, or store them in the granary!”

They shoved me forward with the others. I could see behind the hall: corpses, clothing, dismembered limbs were everywhere, some even floating in the drainage canals.

People wandered like wild animals. Those who tried to flee were quickly beheaded on the spot.

I saw young women with disheveled hair and bare feet sobbing in the corners of buildings. Rebels either beat them, dragged them away, or tied them to donkeys and horses for later...

 

Some of those detained were made to carry the plunder on their backs. Many, seeing a chance, threw themselves into roadside ditches and culverts to die rather than be enslaved.

Others, enraging the rebels, were slaughtered on the spot—their deaths too horrific to behold or even hear about. Witnessing this, we could not help but wonder: why had they not taken their own lives sooner, for the sake of their ancestors?

By nightfall (around the second watch), we were moved again. Word came that the rebel base had moved closer to Linling, near Mapu (a town). That night, we were again detained—my uncles and cousins included—crammed into something like an animal shed. Donkeys and horses were tied up just outside by the lake, wailing continuously.

We heard more cries—some of pain, some from people being beaten or killed. The rebels gathered around their fires, feasting and laughing raucously. We sat facing each other, horrified, unable to eat a single bite.

The ground was wet from constant rain. Our seats were mats of straw and weeds soaked through. The moisture seeped through us. They assigned guards to each group, and none dared to close their eyes that night. Hell itself seemed to unfold before us.

By the next morning, the rain had grown heavier. The rebels ordered us to take off any furs or leather garments. These they took and either wrapped around donkeys and horses to shield them from the rain, or used them as rain cloaks for themselves.

Even if those garments were worth tens or hundreds of taels, they discarded them simply because they were too heavy to carry.

My uncle tried to escape, but the guards were vigilant. Those who did escape from Wanzhou were killed if caught. Those who slipped out from other pens were dragged back and executed in front of the rest to instill fear. Fruit trays were used as punishment tools.

One rebel secretly whispered to us:
“Your uncle is too rigid, and he’ll surely die. You must learn to be flexible between life and death. Bear it with no regrets.”

On the 18th day, in the west quarter, a rebel suddenly shouted:
“You! The boss is calling you! Quickly—follow me!”

Startled, I stood up hesitantly. The rebel pretended to threaten me with a knife, saying,
“If you don’t come, I’ll cut you down right now.”
Fearing worse, I followed.

We walked about ten paces and arrived at a half-collapsed house. Outside stood a rebel chief, dressed in green, with a purple-yellow sash, seated beneath a tree. He was the one they all called “Boss.”

The rebels dragged me forward. The boss sneered,
“So, this is the new one?” Then shouted:
“Hurry, let him speak to the master!”

I was brought before him. We all stood like wooden statues, not daring to move or even raise our eyes. We strained to hear what was coming next.

After a long while, they still did not kill us. Suddenly, a rebel shouted,
“Do you want to go home?”

Everyone’s heart leapt—but we didn’t dare respond. We only murmured vague words, uncertain what they wanted.

The rebel captain nodded and said to the guards:
“Very well. Those who want to return home—we’ll send them back.”

But just as they were “escorted out,” they were immediately killed by the roadside, and their severed heads displayed to the others, with the rebels proclaiming:
“This one wanted to go back to his country, so we sent him home.”

This was their cruelest trick—to sever the prisoners’ longing for escape and family by crushing both hope and example.

My fifth uncle, Yu Chou, known for his loyalty and filial piety, stepped forward and said resolutely,
“I want to go home!”

The rebel chief asked,
“Why do you want to go home?”

He answered with trembling but determined voice:
“There are eight graves and one elderly mother waiting at home…”

 

Flight, Betrayal, and Final Captivity – from Record of Griefful Reflections

That day, we learned that our uncle Xing had been forcibly taken around noon. Just the day before, he had still been hiding in a thatched hut at the neighbor’s house. Now, we did not know whether he had survived. The news struck our group like thunder—our limbs weakened, our souls trembled. Some clutched at their clothes in despair, fearing they too would be dragged away. But my uncle stood upright, calm in demeanor, speaking with firm conviction. His face showed no fear, only a righteous anger.

A rebel in green clothing sneered:
"All right, all right. We’ll send you back. Didn’t he say he wanted to go home? Let’s send him home!"

My uncle, though unwilling, was taken away. Our group could only stand watching, weeping silently, unable to intervene. The rebels still kept the rest of us under guard, warning us to behave.

Earlier, a false “Assistant King” of the Taiping had issued an order:
“To break the siege of Nanjing, we must drive the captured civilians ahead of us. Those unfit for combat will be dressed up and exchanged for silver.”

This “King” was vicious, the worst of the rebels.

We knew nothing of this order, only that we sat in silence, aching over our uncle’s uncertain fate. The sorrow was overwhelming, our minds numb.

By dusk, no news had returned. Just as we were about to prepare another simple meal, we saw the glow of lanterns growing near. As they approached, we heard someone call:
"One Li Yu from the rear hall!"

My heart skipped. Li Yu—he was a cousin from the same ancestral line, of the Lu branch. Along with him, names were called: "Zhong," "Huo," and others—all names from our extended family.

They shouted:
"Your fifth uncle has returned home! He sent ten taels of silver to buy your release."

A rebel guard added:
"He says the others will come soon to ransom you too. He left this lantern as proof.”

His tone was unexpectedly soft, even polite, and his face not as cruel as others. After speaking, he hurried away. It seemed someone had paid silver to the rebel captain and passed word of the family’s plea.

Our hearts were stirred with hope. But we still knew nothing of our grandmother’s fate.

From then on, each day, one or two were returned—sometimes three or four. The rebels were inconsistent. If there was silver, they sometimes let people go. If not, they ignored them.

When it came my turn—the fourth group to be “released”—I was among those sent off. As we walked, we reached Nanyang Village, near a bridge at the Liu Clan’s ancestral hall. There, I saw my uncles and cousins. We embraced and wept bitterly.

I asked about my grandmother.
They said, “She’s still alive, staying in the neighbor’s house.” That gave us comfort.

The bridge we stood on was on the main road—where rebels passed through constantly. My uncles warned:
“There’s no safety going home now. The rebels swarm the roads. We’ll stay here and find another plan.”

So I never returned home again. From then on, I had no idea whether the old or young ones still lived.

One merchant nearby sighed:
“Even with only a dozen of your family left, you couldn’t escape. If you’d hidden among the great crowds from the start, perhaps you would’ve made it.”

While we were still debating where to flee, another rebel group passed by—dressed in red sashes and green belts, leading newly captured civilians. There were over a hundred of them, moving southward.

This group passed through my house.

My uncle tried to plead with the rebel commander standing at the roadside, asking for mercy. Miraculously, they released me—this was already the third time I had been seized.

But even then, we were not truly safe. That very evening, my uncles gathered and said:
“Don’t put faith in being spared. Look around—rebels are pouring in from all directions. If they suspect anything, they’ll kill all of us without hesitation.”

So we sent the children and old men to scatter and hide in the village. I told them:
“Don’t try to dig up or rescue anything. The rebels will surely press southward. Just stay alive. And remember: don’t be stubborn or loud—they kill those who speak.”

“Also,” I added, “these rebels sometimes revere scholars. If you’re caught, and seem educated, they’ll force you to work in their camps copying texts—and that means you’ll never escape. But… if you stay alert, maybe you’ll live.”

Just as we finished speaking, rebel drums roared—another troop was arriving.

In panic, I grabbed my younger brother Yingzhi, and we ran into the house of the Liu family. There we met our cousin Zhaoxian, and several others followed. We barricaded the door with a large stone.

Altogether, about ten of us were hiding inside. As for the others—we never heard from them again.

Suddenly, we saw fire rise from the neighbor’s house. We climbed the wall in fear. Though the fire was upwind, it was dangerously close. Our hearts pounded with dread.

Inside, the others began to argue:
“If the rebels are few and we’re many, we should fight!”

But before anyone could act, a voice bellowed outside the gate.

Then came a thud—our barricade stone toppled.

A man rushed in, wearing black, short jacket, black silk cuffs, red and green sashes around his waist, with long hair like a woman’s—but short in stature, like someone from Hunan or Hubei.

He yelled in a fierce accent:
“Ghosts! Devils! Come out now!”
He shouted twice but didn’t immediately enter.

We brothers held each other, hiding in the shadows. No one dared move. Some whispered of ambushing him—but no one had the courage. It was as if his voice carried demonic power.

Then, several more rebels barged in. They dragged us out—my brothers, cousins, and one local villager. They bound us together by our hair with ropes and forced us to march.

Behind us, we heard a terrible scream—one of our own had been stabbed with a spear. His blood splattered on my clothes.

This time, the situation felt worse than ever. Seeing this horror, I felt my soul collapse. But strangely, my mind became calm—perhaps because I had not yet been killed, or because my brothers were still by my side.

We were led south, through vines and brambles, past a village, into a small house.

There, the rebels locked five of us into one room, bolting the door. Inside were already a few men and women—our fate still unknown...

 

"The Hanging Pouch" (Chuinang) — from Record of Griefful Reflections

Among the graves was a local villager named Zhou. One day, unexpectedly and foolishly, he brought his daughter into the camp. She was young, but her features were striking—barely twelve or thirteen, yet graceful and refined.

She came to our house, as we were still detained there. After only a short while, someone came to summon her:
“The boss wants to see you.”

The girl refused to go.

Her father coaxed her to step out:
“Come now, go. The great man is waiting.”

She remained silent, as stiff and pale as before.

Then we heard someone on the eastern roof whispering:
“I only want this girl. She’s twelve. In times like these, no one survives anyway.”

The father added:
“Lord Qiao treats people well. Go and serve the lady.”

Turning to his daughter, he said:
“Be obedient, serve the lord.”

His voice was heartbreaking—trembling, mournful.

A rebel nearby sneered:
“Disgusting. You old man—you really are shameless!”

Yet the father, his will broken, had already resolved: If I cannot keep her safe, better to offer her than have her seized violently. At least this way, she may return alive someday.

He stayed behind, but the rebels took the girl.

Alas! Tragedy.

That old man had claimed:
“I will not let her be taken.”
But in the end, he delivered her himself.

My brothers and I sat in silence, like prisoners awaiting execution—too numb even to weep.

Suddenly, several rebels kicked open the door.
They dragged a woman from the neighboring western room.
Then came faint sobbing, and then wailing—sounds so painful we could not bear to hear them.

From the east, one of the rebels—likely the so-called “Lord Qiao”—was heard drinking, laughing, and feasting with the women, his voice loud and lewd.

Then came chaos:
Shouts, cries, banging of doors, gunfire—nonstop.

Apparently, one of the women had resisted, offended the rebel somehow—and was killed.

Heaven and earth seemed upturned.

And yet, I could only mourn:
Why had that girl not died earlier?

That night, guards were stationed tightly around the house.
Someone tried to escape halfway through the night, but was soon caught—slashed to death with blades.

At dawn, a rebel came in and barked:
“Eat quickly! We’re setting out soon!”

Then he added:
“Our boss—his surname’s Li, from Hunan. He’s the one in charge of the dead. The one guarding you—his surname’s Qiao, also from Hunan. You’re lucky I’m here. Otherwise, if you’d been left to Lady Qiao, you’d all be dead already.”

He glanced around at us and said:
“You doubt me? Come out and see for yourselves. All those who were with her last night have already been killed.”

 

Once the executions were over, the ground was already piled with corpses—men and women together.

Two more rebels arrived. One was the pockmarked-faced man, who shouted:
“Those who can fight will go to the front line. Those who can carry loads will go to the rear.”

(The rebels called the strong "front-line" and the elderly or weak "rear-guard.")
“Everyone must speak up now—if you don’t, we’ll kill you.”

My brothers and I dared not respond.

The pockmarked rebel raised his knife and cursed:
“Useless cowards! Might as well kill you all!”

Just then, another rebel—more refined in appearance—stepped forward. He wore a narrow-sleeved red silk tunic, short black jacket, embroidered slippers, and had his braid tied with red threads. He asked:
“Can any of you read or write?”

Still, none of us dared to answer.

The pockmarked man snapped:
“This is our leader, Lord Li! Answer him!”

I replied meekly:
“I… don’t write very well.”

He asked:
“Can you sew?”
“No.”

“Then what can you do?”

My brother Yingzhi answered:
“We really can’t do anything. Why do you need us?”

Fearing we'd be killed, I quickly added:
“We can do chores… like keeping watch at the gate.”

“What’s your surname?”

I pointed to Yingzhi:
“His surname is Qian, mine is Zhou.”

The rebels said nothing, but led us outside.

I began to wonder: were they going to spare us?

But soon after, the order came—“Move out!”

My cousin was also with me. We were pushed and dragged out the gate. Some were forced to carry bundles on their backs, bound in straw mats.

Not far ahead, I saw a young woman, her face flushed, now dressed in a tight purple tunic. She was mounted on a donkey, riding alongside a rebel surnamed Li. The two seemed to ride as a pair.

People whispered that she had already been claimed by a rebel officer—her fate sealed.

Behind them were several boys—around four or five years old—dressed in bright-colored clothes with red braids. Some carried knives, others banners wrapped in red or yellow cloth, five inches wide, less than one inch thick. These were the rebels’ false seals of office.

Each child held either a short sword, a whip, or a carved tiger stick. Some looked like little princelings, dressed up as “young masters” or “lordlings,” but they were just rebel boys—trained to kill.

They followed the horses closely, never leaving the side of their master. With sycophantic grins and graceful postures, they flattered their commanders, yet their hearts were already poisoned by cruelty.

I forced myself to appear calm and composed, trying not to draw attention. I did not dare show grief or defiance. All I could think was:
If we get far enough, perhaps we can find a chance to escape.

But I was wrong.

Soon, we saw signs that rebel armies were moving south by multiple routes. They claimed to number in the millions, attacking Suzhou and Hangzhou. Along the way, the roads were choked with victims, like flocks of geese driven to slaughter. Women cried out, children screamed, all packed together in a chaotic march.

The dead lay strewn across ten miles of road, uncountable.

Some rebels came from Jiangxi, Hunan, Hubei, some from Jian’an. The city of Nanjing was said to be one of their centers, and four to five tenths of those captured in the city had already been forced to join the march.

Some survivors were farmers; others simply fled.

When we reached Longxiang Town, fires were still raging to the west. On Chanshi Street, more flames rose in the east. Corpses lay everywhere—some dismembered, others trampled.

At Hushu Town, the same devastation was visible.

Our family’s shop on the west main street in Nanjing had already been burned to the ground. The blaze was intense, flames shooting to the sky. Goods, furniture, doors, and tools—all destroyed.

The road back toward the Tuguimu Cemetery was blocked by debris. The groans of the wounded and dying never ceased.

On the road, some elderly or sick people, unable to walk, simply sat down and were immediately hacked to death by rebel blades.

Others, in desperation, leapt into the river to escape. But the rebels stood ready at the banks—shooting, spearing, or slicing anyone who tried.

None survived.

Even those who begged for mercy—some dressed in court robes, hoping to pass as government officials—were stripped, their ears cut off, their hands bound, and forced to walk until exhaustion.

When they could walk no more—they were killed.

The rebels used them first as porters or soldiers, but when they resisted or collapsed, they were poisoned or butchered as examples.

Sometimes, in roadside huts or hidden graveyards, we found the bodies of young girls, even infants—all killed, stabbed, or torn apart.

Those who survived were often trampled, molested, and broken—their entrails spilled, their faces flattened.

The number of such cases defies count.

Later, we reached a spot where another rebel band called out for food. I saw a man I recognized dragging along three prisoners. I tried to call out—

 

Everywhere we passed was filled with discarded weapons, smashed bronze and iron tools, and scorched cooking pots. The smell of blood and filth still lingered in the air. In that very place, some had already begun to cook rice.

The main rebel forces moved on, some heading to nearby villages to loot food. They ordered the newly captured people to carry rice bags on their backs. No one cared whether the rice was raw; they devoured it like wild animals. Within minutes, it was gone.

We were starving, afraid we’d collapse if we didn’t eat. I tried to eat but couldn’t swallow. Forcing down a few mouthfuls, I felt slightly better.

At that moment, we saw more villagers being captured—over a dozen. The rebels argued over who got to kill them. We dared not look.

Suddenly, a rebel ran toward us and said,
“Don’t you want to see your brother die?”

He dragged me over to witness an execution. A man was thrown before a crowd. A rebel grabbed his braid, pulled his head back, and slashed at his neck.

The first cut made him scream. The second silenced him. The third nearly severed his head—only the skin at the throat still held. Blood gushed three feet away. Two others were similarly beheaded.

Within moments, over ten people were dead. The sound of slicing filled the air.

One rebel turned and shouted:
“Try to run, and you’ll end like them!”

He tossed his blade down and walked away.

We stood frozen. The rebels ordered us to continue marching.

The weather was terrible—mud everywhere. The path was slick and deep. We had no control over our steps. Half a mile later, we reached Jurong County, but the gates were locked.

Entering the city by foot, we found corpses strewn everywhere, decomposing, swollen. At one point, I stepped directly into a rotting abdomen, the flesh squishing beneath my feet. I was stunned with horror.

Before I could move, the crowd behind me surged forward. I was trampled. I forced myself to crawl up, but a rebel’s knife slashed my shoulder. Blood spilled, my hand injured.

Despite the pain, I remained silent.

We entered the city temple. There, we were tied up under the eaves. Soon, Li the rebel arrived, bringing along Miss Pang and some of the young rebel boys.

They ordered bathing water.

With no buckets, they used wooden planks and borrowed tubs from neighboring houses. The rebels were delighted. They stripped naked and bathed in front of us, some even forcing the boy-servants to wash them.

After bathing, they shouted for wine and food.

Then, two men were dragged to the hall to boil rice. There were only two kettles, and the rebels began organizing seating. Some sat in circles on bamboo mats, eating with wooden boards as trays.

The women and boys ate together.

There were six rebels and ten of their “boy attendants.” Including us captives, the courtyard held dozens of people. The temple was now their barracks.

Suddenly, they ordered everyone in the corridor to line up and take rice. A wooden bucket was brought, and we were told to scoop rice for ourselves.

When I looked closer, the rice had a strange fragrance, and some reddish clumps.

I realized: they had slaughtered a wounded donkey on the road and cooked its meat with the rice.

We were too hungry to care. My brothers and I each ate a bowl. The rice was rough and mixed with stones, but we forced it down.

Behind the temple, another building was burning. The rebels ran up to arrange bedding, breaking apart beams to make space.

The rebels fought over embroidered mats and wide bedding—four people to a mat. Miss Pang lay in the center, hidden behind a large flag.

Fearing we’d escape, the rebels had us lie down on the floor nearby. They placed guards in the hallways.

I lay with my brothers, exhausted. Someone whispered:
“You two—be careful.”

Another said,
“This city is cursed.”

Suddenly, a shout rang out—a murder? I woke in terror.
Was it a dream? Or real? I no longer knew.

We slept again. By morning, our limbs were stiff and in pain. Still, I longed for more food.

When the rice came, it was hard as stones. I still forced down two bowls. My hunger had become a monster.

At sunrise, we were ordered to march again.

Each of us was given bundles to carry. We moved out of the city, southeast, on narrow roads choked with others.

As we walked, rebels stripped people beside us of their clothing, searching for valuables.

One man tried to walk too fast—his elbow struck my ribs. The pain pierced my chest; I could barely breathe.

When we rested again, I couldn’t go on.

I didn’t want to eat, but Yingzhi brought rice and forced me to take a few bites. My breath hadn’t yet returned when the rebels ordered another departure.

We passed a village—every house emptied. Under huge trees along the riverbank, we saw bodies tied to the trunks, their limbs charred, flesh burnt black, even the trees stripped of bark.

I was told:
“The rebels tied them to trees and burned them alive.”

Not a hundred steps later, we reached the broken bridge.

We’d have to cross the river.

I was terrified.
I said to Yingzhi,
“If we cross the water, we’ll die. But if we stay—we’ll die too.”

When we reached the bank, we saw rafts made of window shutters and doors, tied together to form platforms.

Rebels had already crossed ahead.

When our turn came, a rebel waved his knife and forced us on. Each raft held ten or more people.

On the far side, rebels pulled the rafts with ropes. The boards were slick—anyone who fell was stoned or drowned.

Children and weak ones were often pushed in first, then thrown overboard if they panicked.

I stood on a window lattice, trembling. But somehow, I survived.

We crossed five or six rivers in this manner, walking in wet clothes, wading through water that reached our thighs.

This lasted five or six days.

Finally, we reached Danyang, about 90 li away.

The city had lost its walls. The rebels poured in through the gaps. Inside, they set up flags and banners.

They claimed various houses. One was labeled “inn”, another “oil shop.” But all were now barracks.

We were taken into a house—forty-eight of us—placed in a wide hall. The rebels stationed guards.

We sat on grindstones and water jars, gasping from exhaustion.

A villager begged:
“We’ve marched for hundreds of li. We can’t run. Please untie us—we’ll follow.”

The rebel agreed and untied four people to fetch water.

Later, a wooden bucket arrived, and everyone crowded around to drink like cattle. Even though the water was muddy, full of tea scum and ash, we gulped it down like nectar.

 

Suddenly, several rebels came and said,
“The weather has turned cold. The boss wants you to go out and find supplies.”

This was suspicious, but we were too afraid to refuse. We were told to go in small groups. Each man whispered to the next, wondering what it meant. Some guessed:
“They probably want us to fetch bedding, herbs, and warm clothing.”

One rebel guided us to a nearby house.

Inside, there were several female corpses, weaving tools, a canopy bed, jars and scattered belongings. Under the bed, we found the body of a child.

We searched the house for cloth or blankets, turning over boards and poking the ground with knives, hoping to uncover valuables. It was already dark.

My brother and I, along with two others, were assigned to carry torches. My brother was in pain from exhaustion but did not dare complain. A villager from Guangdong, who had once received help from our family, now helped us in return.

Later, we gathered around a plank with rice and weak tea, eating in silence. My brother Yingzhi had a severe headache. I felt his neck—it was cold and swollen. His limbs were limp. I covered him with a blanket and cradled his head.

I barely slept. Suddenly, in the middle of the night, I was jolted awake by a loud voice outside. I called for Yingzhi—he answered, his headache much improved.

Thankfully, he slept through the night and felt stronger. If he had collapsed, he would not have survived the next day’s march.

Before breakfast was finished, rebels came again. They bound our necks together with rope and pushed us forward.

That night, they captured two village boys—perhaps ages five or six. They were crying, wrapped in our blankets. We had to carry them.

One rebel said we would reach Jintan that evening. The army would assault the city at night.

Jintan, Hanyang, Zaozhuang, Jurong, and other nearby towns had already heard the rebels were regrouping and launching another siege.

By noon, we saw black smoke rising. Cannon fire shook the air. The battle at the North Gate of Jintan had already begun.

One rebel, surname Li, had been assigned to guard us. He had previously kept to the rear, but when battle began, he pushed to the front and vanished.

We finally realized:
The weakest captives were kept as human shields.
Only now did we understand why we hadn’t been placed in the vanguard—our frailty had saved us.

That day was the 25th of the intercalary month.

My brother and I were always sickly, especially me. I had spent my days reading at home. Even to travel five or seven li, I needed help.

But now, we had been marched 60 to 90 li daily, on foot, with no rest. Our clothes were stiff with blood and sweat. It was only by luck—or fate—that we had not yet died.

At one stop, the rebels ordered us to cook rice. We had barely begun when they drove us again to nearby villages to scavenge for wood and supplies. Ten of the strongest were sent to carry back large boards.

My group was tasked with sweeping and cleaning.

At the temple where we were later detained, the rebels claimed the rear buildings:

• Two rooms for Rebel Officer Li and Miss Pang;

• One room for two small rebels;

• A hall for four or five adult rebels and several rebel boys.

In the main shrine, facing south, a table was set—they called it the “Hall of the Heavenly Father.”

To the east side of the hall, they placed pen, ink, and paper. That was the rebel scribe’s station.

To the west, they stored knives, gongs, drums, all hidden behind planks.

Behind the shrine was a wooden platform—five or six inches high. Captives were forced to lie flat on it. Each gate had rebels stationed to guard against escape.

Outside, the temple had wide courtyards. White cloth was stretched between trees for shade. This was the rebel army’s resting place.

Rebel Li came out and took his seat at the altar.

He called over a boy and said:
“Bring me a man named Lin. He’s to assist in divine writing.”

Soon, a gaunt man with sunken cheeks arrived.

The rebels called him “Master of the Divine Script.”
He was their chief scribe, tasked with drafting edicts in the name of “Heavenly Father” and “Worshiping God.”

Rebels addressed him with mock reverence as “Sir Dream-Writer.”
A short-haired man was called “Mr. Teacher.”

Their religion, clearly derived from heterodoxy, used borrowed Christian terms.

Not long after, they delivered a handwritten paper, its purpose unknown.

 

At dawn, the rebels divided us into two lines, flanking both sides.
Li the rebel chief stood in the middle, facing outward.
He turned to another and said:
“Let the scribes begin the ceremony — this is important.”

We were ushered under the corridor to observe.

Soon, Li raised his voice and began chanting—a dozen or so phrases. The other rebels followed in chorus. The phrases were unclear, possibly ritual chants. After the chanting, their so-called “Chief Scribe” stepped forward, faced north, and offered tribute (likely fabricated documents or offerings).

He mumbled words none of us could understand.
After reading, he tossed the offering into the fire.
They said:
“This must be done once every seven days — the Holy Rite.”

This was evidently their perversion of Christian practice — not true faith, but cultic manipulation to deceive the masses.

Then, they ordered us all to sit.
Some squatted, some leaned back, some lay down with their legs stretched, some flailed their arms or twitched — a chaotic scene of exhausted men, humiliated and broken.

Three young rebel boys stood beside the rebel leader. One called the rest of us forward and began asking names.

When my turn came, I answered:
“Zhou Licheng.”
My brother said: “Qian Fubao.”

They jotted it down. The scribe made notes beside our surnames:
“From the State of Lu,” or some nonsense about ancient regions.

One rebel said:
“You’re all from the firewood conscripts, right? You must be grateful to the Heavenly Kingdom. Escaping will bring death. If you can fight or carry burdens, you’ll be put on the front lines.”

They wanted strong men to serve in the army.
When they asked us, my brother and I, and a few uncles, remained silent. We had no strength.

Then the commander selected about eight children, all around 10 years old, some with delicate looks. Two were assigned as gatekeepers, one was adopted as a "righteous son" of a high-ranking rebel.

The rest of us were questioned.

We replied:
“We can’t carry heavy loads—only do chores.”

So we were assigned to cleaning and odd jobs. Only then did our hearts settle a little.

One said:
“I’m the Chief Grain Officer.”
He pointed to the others:
“These are all old brothers. This one here is our teacher—the ‘Chief Scribe Lady.’”
They referred to rebel leaders with absurd titles like “Sir Dreamwriter,” “Mr. Teacher,” “The Heavenly Prince.”

He described a fake nobility hierarchy: six titled persons with names like
Yi (義), An (安), Li (禮), Wu (武), Ru (茹), Qi (妻) — supposedly their aristocracy.

They explained:
“We’re under Prince Shi, who now governs this region. We’ve just conquered Jintan. We will remain here, not return north.”

The hall boys were assigned to manage weapons, banners, clothing, food.

They claimed to have sixteen departments, each with a rebel official.
“You needn’t worry or think of home anymore,” they said.
“You’ve been given a fortunate post.”

From the next day onward, we were told to follow “the elder brothers” and help gather grain.
Those unable to go out would stay behind and cook or tend fires.

After this absurd speech, they led us away.

That, they said, was what they called “a sermon.”

---

Forced Labor and Encampment

We returned to the corridor, utterly exhausted.
We had no pillows, but we slept deeply on the bare ground.

When we awoke, our bodies ached terribly, flesh raw and blistered.
My brother Yingzhi’s feet were swollen, making walking nearly impossible.

After a quick meal, the rebels ordered everyone to fan out and loot horses and grain.

Gunfire rang out constantly near the city walls.
Stray bullets struck rooftops.

Terrified, we dared not move.
We didn’t know the roads, nor did we dare flee.

Just then, a rebel named Yu Baizhang was assigned to oversee our group of five.
He ordered us to tend fires and livestock—particularly donkeys and horses.

It was backbreaking, but relatively safer than other tasks.

Since then, we lived permanently in the lower courtyard.
Though no longer chained, we were warned not to speak freely.

The main gate and bridge were guarded.
The river beneath flowed with corpses.

Rebels returning from raids often passed the gate, dragging new captives, or killing them outside.

The stench of death, the screams, the splashes of blood—no brush could fully describe it.

This was only one part of the cruelty.
What I’ve recorded here is but a thin sketch of its horror.

 

《Return of the Destroyed People》 

1.
Many were driven to commit suicide with knives; others were forced off cliffs or bludgeoned with stones. Among the weak who survived, ten out of one hundred were spared — the rest died, either by random stabbing, hacking, live disembowelment, or having their hearts and livers gouged out. Some were tied to wooden stakes or bundles of firewood and burned alive. Others were gunned down or killed swiftly with blades.

Women, even those considered unattractive, were not spared. Those deemed beautiful suffered the worst: many died resisting sexual assault. Six or seven out of every ten were raped and killed. Some were taken to the bandit camps to serve as so-called “chaste women,” yet they were repeatedly gang-raped until their bodies gave out — only then were they executed.

Among the most sadistic were two southern bandit leaders: Wang the Ironmaster and Qiao the One-Eyed, both notorious for their delight in killing.

One day, Wang pretended to escort a woman and her daughter home. The woman, believing this to be true, followed him happily. After they had walked a short distance, Wang suddenly slashed her across the neck, and she collapsed, begging for her life. With another stroke, he severed her head. He ordered the daughter to carry the severed head, but she collapsed. Laughing wildly, he lifted her up and sliced through her face with a knife, rejoicing in her blood.

This was how he “rewarded” cities that resisted. The strategy was to instill terror, deterring future attempts at escape.

One gruesome act involved handing a knife to a prisoner and forcing him to kill his uncle. When the man refused, the bandits executed his uncle and again pressured the prisoner to eat his flesh. Upon repeated refusals, they disemboweled him and tore out his liver, feeding it to other captives.

These men, devoid of even the faintest morality, reveled in depravity and evil. Those who captured young, beautiful children would fight over them to keep as personal slaves.

The city of Jinling could not be taken after heavy losses, so the bandits turned to looting smaller towns and transporting the spoils under escort, unleashing more violence as they retreated.

---

2.
Even monks and hermits were not spared. Villages were ransacked, families slaughtered. Survivors bore deep hatred that could never be forgotten.

There were accounts of girls playing musical instruments in their homes who were shot through their chests — the bands simply enjoying the act of killing. Many tried to commit suicide to avoid rape and defilement; some succeeded, others were stopped, punished, and then murdered in more horrific ways.

Each bandit encampment had strict prohibitions: anyone trying to leave without permission would be hunted down and killed. They would often stab the escapees first as punishment before publicly killing them.

A few female captives who were spared death were forced to serve the whims of bandits indefinitely. Even young boys were not exempt, forced to become sex slaves or “court children” for senior officers.

One of the most violent camps was led by a woman known as “Lady Lu,” from the Zhongqiao district of Jinling, who had been turned after the city fell. She, along with Wang and Qiao, derived pleasure from murder. In her care, four captured scholars were executed publicly — supposedly as an example to others. At this camp, killing became routine. Every dusk brought eerie winds, and ghostly howls filled the air, chilling all who heard them.

The bandits feared nothing. They mocked the law. By early July, they had even mocked the Confucian temples and violated sacred grounds.

People were forbidden to drink unboiled water for fear of infection and ulcers. Those who showed signs of sickness were mocked or tortured. We kept silent, suppressing even whispers, lest we draw their attention and wrath.

---

3.
One day, while tending to the horses near the river, I conspired with Yingzhi to try escaping. We walked quietly toward the edge of the camp, but just then, a foraging party returned. Wang spotted us and questioned where we were going. My heart sank — I couldn’t think of a reply. Yingzhi, however, quickly said we were tending the livestock.

Because Yingzhi remained close to the horses, he was not suspected. But I, having wandered off, was accused of attempted escape. They reported me to Li, the camp’s jailer.

I knew this would be the end. I stood still, closed my eyes, and waited for death.

 

《返董亡乙一民》
(This title appears corrupted; it may mean “The Return of the Doomed People” or be part of a miscopied or fictionalized label.)

An Analysis of the Title "Returning from Dong and Mourning the Loss of Ordinary People"

Based on the chapter you provided and the original text, along with insights from Google's AI, here's an elaborated interpretation:

1. Meaning of "返" (Returning)

• Returning, going back, or escaping back home.

• Expresses the author Li Gui’s profound desire to flee the turmoil and return safely to his hometown or a place of refuge.

2. Meaning of "董" (Dong)

• Since the author’s surname is not Dong, "董" (Dong) likely refers symbolically to a key historical figure or represents the oppressive powers causing chaos at the time.

• Qing-dynasty writers often used historical figures symbolically to reflect contemporary chaos. Thus, "Dong" likely alludes to Dong Zhuo, a notorious tyrant from the late Han dynasty, symbolizing oppressive or tyrannical forces (such as the Taiping rebels or violent warlords).

3. Meaning of "亡乙" (Loss of the Second Person)

• "亡" means death, loss, disappearance, or exile, specifically highlighting the tragedies and sacrifices experienced during chaotic times.

• "乙" here might not indicate an actual surname but rather represents a generalized anonymous victim, similar to saying "Person B," representing any unnamed ordinary victim in a chaotic era.

4. Meaning of "一民" (An Ordinary Person)

• Refers explicitly to the author himself, Li Gui, emphasizing his identity as an ordinary citizen (rather than a prominent official or noble) struggling desperately amidst war and disorder.

• Simultaneously, "一民" symbolizes the collective suffering endured by common people, highlighting that this tragedy was not personal but a communal disaster.

Comprehensive Interpretation of the Title:

"Returning from Dong (tyrannical chaos), mourning the anonymous victims, the testimony of one ordinary person’s struggle."
In other words, "I, Li Gui, an ordinary citizen, witnessed the losses and suffering of countless unnamed individuals amid oppressive chaos, and now I record my arduous journey back home."

---

Translation – Section 1

“蓋寶寶寶箸” (This seems nonsensical; possibly a corruption. Ignored in translation.)

---

Many people were forced to kill themselves with knives, or were driven off cliffs, or bludgeoned with stones. Among the weak, only about ten out of a hundred survived. The rest were either bayoneted to death, hacked with sabers, or cut open while still alive so their hearts and livers could be removed. Some were tied to tree trunks or firewood bundles and set alight, burned alive. Others were shot or killed swiftly by knife.

Even women who were considered unattractive were not spared. Those who were beautiful, pitifully, suffered even worse. As many as sixty to seventy percent of the women were raped and then killed, especially if they tried to resist. Some were taken back to the bandits’ camps as so-called “chaste women” — only to be repeatedly gang-raped by the soldiers until their bodies gave out, and then murdered.

There were two especially brutal and bloodthirsty bandit leaders — Wang the Ironmaster and Qiao the One-Eyed, both from southern China. Wang was especially fond of killing. One day, under the pretense of helping a woman and her daughter return home, he lured them into following him. The woman, unaware of the trap, followed cheerfully. But after walking just a few dozen paces, Wang suddenly raised his knife and slashed her across the neck, knocking her to the ground. As she begged for mercy, he struck again, and her head fell.

He then ordered the daughter to carry her mother's severed head, but the girl, too weak and terrified, collapsed. Wang grabbed her by the hair, forced her up, and slashed her neck as well — then laughed maniacally.

Such scenes were staged by the rebels in many towns to terrorize the population and dissuade escape or resistance.

To further instill fear, they sometimes forced captives to perform acts of cannibalism. They would hand a knife to a person and say: “Cut him. If you don’t, you will be cut instead.” One bandit, Qiao, asked a prisoner, “Do you not want to know who this person is?” When the man said, “He is my uncle,” Qiao replied, “Then you must not like him, right?” He then beheaded the uncle.

Then, they brought forward another man, identified as his nephew, and forced him to kneel, handing him a knife and commanding him to slice the uncle’s neck. When he refused, they pushed another bandit’s knife to his own throat. Still, the man refused. Enraged, they hacked him apart, cut open his abdomen, and removed his liver — then had his companion carry it away.

The bandits were utterly depraved, without conscience or morality. The most prized captives were young boys and girls, especially those with fine features. They were fought over and passed around among the rebels like property.

By then, the city of Jinling (Nanjing) was heavily besieged. The rebels could not break through its defenses, suffering great losses. Therefore, they turned to looting surrounding towns and retreating with stolen goods under military escort.

---

Notes:

• This translation retains the disturbing details in order to reflect the historical reality and horrors witnessed and documented during the Taiping Rebellion.

• The account seems to come from first-person memoirs of a civilian (likely from 《庚申紀變》 or similar Qing-era records), many of which described the massacre of civilians after rebel forces swept through towns.

 

In many places, the qin (zither) and se (a similar instrument) were also destroyed, as local gentry families were slaughtered. The hatred and cruelty often seemed inexplicable. One monk who had survived said: “I have heard of many who used playing the qin and se to avoid shame and humiliation — truly tragic and worthy of sorrow.”

In each rebel station (garrison house or "guan"), those who left without permission were pursued and killed. Before executing someone, they would often first bring out a knife — not because they needed to learn to kill, but because to them, killing had become a kind of pleasure.

Occasionally, someone might not be killed immediately, but would first have their ears mutilated or be locked in chains. Some were put in torture frames, and others were left to die slowly of starvation or disease. These things became so common that among the Taiping rebels, especially in the Mo (墨) group, they would openly carry out executions as routine.

In one station under the rebel regime, a certain Li — one of the rebel eyes (junior commanders) — was reportedly not fond of killing. However, in the same garrison, the so-called "Madame Tangde" (堂得夫人), whose real name was Lu Qingxiang, a native of Dazhongqiao in Nanjing, had once been a respectable woman until the fall of the city in the year of Guichou (probably 1853). After being captured, her nature changed drastically, and together with rebels like Wang the Ironmaster and Qin the Grim, she found pleasure in killing.

Among the captives, there were four men from Quan County who had once studied the Book of Rites — they were publicly executed by these same rebels, an act carried out with glee. In that place, killing had become a routine — a kind of grim theater.

Every evening as dusk approached, the air turned mournful, and eerie wailing could be heard, chilling to the bone. The rebels seemed unafraid of any moral law. It was said that in early July, an official ghost was sighted at Shangshu (a government hall), frightening the rebels into silence. But in other rebel posts, the same horrors occurred again and again. People whispered that even the stars had gone dim, the grass and trees were like ghosts — no one dared to sleep at night.

The rebels ordered all to beat metal bowls and shine mirrors until dawn, as if to ward off spirits.

Witnessing all this, I dared not even consider escape. I was further warned not to drink unclean water, as doing so would bring on sores and poison. Many had open wounds from the filth and damp.

One day, while my companion Yingzhi was herding horses in the field, I went to the riverbank under the pretense of fetching rice, and there we quietly discussed escape. We strolled away from the camp, thinking to slip away unnoticed.

But just as we had gone about a li (roughly half a kilometer), we were seen by Wang the Ironmaster, who was returning from a grain raid. He stopped us and asked why we were there. My heart panicked, and I had no answer.

Yingzhi quickly responded, “We came to tend the livestock.”

Because Yingzhi had not left the animals behind and thus showed no signs of fleeing, they let him go. But they accused me of attempted escape and reported me to Li, a commander known as the “Registrar of the Northern Star.”

I was not allowed to defend myself. I could only stand there in silence, awaiting execution. I closed my eyes, prepared for the worst...

:

---

🔹 English Annotations & Explanatory Notes:

Li (the registrar) ordered me to kill the man in yellow as a way to atone. But then Li said, “Let’s see how the Young Master feels.” And so—for now—I was spared.

Then came a call for me to inscribe words on the wall. A rebel brought over a hoe and motioned toward the wall. I was furious. To carve their slogans into stone would mean I could never wash my hands of it. Better to die. In my panic, I had no fear left. I shouted:
“I would rather die than write those words!”

As the wall approached, I struggled with all my strength. Li laughed as he scribbled something instead. The man in yellow again pleaded for my life. Li agreed.
Wang the Ironmaster (汪賊) stood by and recited from their strange doctrine about blessings and curses. Then he said,
“Alright. You’re spared.”

I was completely drained and collapsed to the ground.

As for the man in yellow—I had never met him before. I later learned he was from Zhejiang, someone who had offended one of the rebels. For some reason, he took pity on me and interceded. Without him, I would not have survived.

Then came word from headquarters: the city must fall by the full moon of the seventh month. The rear divisions and officials were told to each select men to help the front lines.

It was the tenth day of the seventh month. The rebels still hadn’t breached the city, so they intensified their assault. They dug tunnels beneath the northeast gate and prepared to blast it with explosives.

Outside that northeast gate, government troops still held their ground and fired continuously. They were courageous and fierce. The rebels fought for days, not even pausing at night.

Back at our station, food was meager. The second camp delivered three meals to Li’s compound. We—the captives—were ordered to carry it. If we resisted, they glared and brandished blades.

My brothers and I were all dazed. We obeyed and passed through a narrow, dangerous road filled with crossfire. Meals had to be carried to every station. Those we passed had heads bowed low, walking slowly with trembling hands.
Fallen bodies littered the roadside. Many had been hit mid-delivery.

There were even small lamps lit beside the corpses—perhaps in mourning. Some wounded tried to move, but couldn’t. I dared not think. I just forced myself forward, telling myself this was fate.

Yingzhi, miraculously, was still alive. I too had been lucky so far. But in that instant, a man ahead of me was shot in the head. His skull shattered, and his food spilled across the ground.

I jumped back in shock, but another bullet whistled past—smaller than a fist. It struck someone walking diagonally from me. The pain was unbearable. I collapsed near a grave and couldn’t rise.

The rebels saw this and grew afraid. “Today is deadly,” they muttered. Still, they wouldn’t let me rest. They gathered up the scattered food and ordered me to walk ahead again.

I hadn’t gone far—perhaps thirty or forty steps—when two bullets came whizzing by. One passed just an inch over my head. Another grazed the back of my scalp.
The sound was like wind through reeds—whsssh. It barely missed my hair.

My face turned pale. I was shaking all over. But they still wouldn’t let me stop. They made us snake forward, pressed low to the ground.

Only after we delivered the meal were we allowed to return—again crawling.

Every time it was my turn, my brother and I would exchange tearful glances, convinced it was our end.

Some among our fellow captives swore they would never deliver food again, even if it meant death.
My brothers and I were lucky to survive. That much was certain.

Such is the memory—this entry marks the close of this scroll.

---

🔹 English Annotations

July 17th: The Fall of Jintan

On the seventeenth day of the seventh month, Jintan fell. The rebels detonated explosives in tunnels under the city wall, causing its collapse. Their troops surged in with ferocious momentum. Their shouts and gunfire could be heard for miles.

The city's defenders included General Zhou Can and Commander Ai of the Tianzi battalion, as well as Magistrate Li of Huai County. They all perished in the battle.

General Zhou, in particular, fought with great bravery, killing more rebels than anyone else. This earned the rebels’ hatred. After his death, they dug up his grave, scattered his remains, and filled his coffin with sewage as revenge.

At this time, Li the Rebel Commander was stationed outside the city, preparing to lead his forces inside. He ordered his troops to sweep the city the following day, claiming it still required a full purge.

That night, many tried to escape the city under cover of darkness, but the rebels had anticipated this and had already stationed guards at every exit. Most escapees were caught, dragged back, and publicly executed by torchlight.

July 18th: The Entry of the Rebels

The next day, the rebels entered the city in force. New and old rebel units filled every street and alley, now choked with corpses and destruction. The city’s moats and canals were clogged with bodies, turning the waters red and stagnant.

On the surface of the water, bloated corpses floated—some as large as barrels.

In anticipation of the city’s fall, many residents had prepared suicide or flight. But of those who remained, seven or eight out of ten were slaughtered. Those who survived were mostly women, children, or the very elderly—the rebels killed nearly everyone else.

The heat was oppressive. Fresh corpses littered the ground, mostly soldiers. Among the women and children who remained, many were raped or otherwise abused before being killed.

Li the Rebel Commander took up residence in the Confucian academy, now converted into a base. Fearing escape, the rebels again bound us in chains and led us to this site.

Inside the offices, documents and clothing lay in disarray. Just outside, five or six soldiers raped a woman against the wall. Her body was torn and bleeding; after repeated assault, she was murdered. Her body was then thrown into the academy’s lotus pond.

Inside, Li arranged his concubine Pang and the young rebel attendants in the western quarters. The eastern quarters were occupied by “Hundred-Family Chiefs”—pseudo-officials such as one surnamed Chen from Jiangxi and another Wang.

A newly captured woman was given to Chen, who was known to enjoy killing. She had once been a favorite of Li’s but was now “gifted” to another.

At night, the rest of us—the surviving captives—were ordered to take turns guarding the quarters of these “officers,” under the supervision of young rebels.

To the south of the city, the registrar Lu the Rebel Scribe brought his mistress and settled in the rear quarters. The central chamber was converted into the “Hall of the Heavenly Father”, where documents were prepared.

That day, the rebels issued a decree:
From tomorrow onward, all those stationed at the new rebel garrisons must carry the corpses scattered across the city and countryside to a designated location for burial.

At this point, our bodies were already covered in sores, and our wounds seeped through our clothes. The labor was unbearable.

I said quietly to Yingzhi:

“Back when they first attacked, I told them I couldn’t read or write. I feared they’d assign me a deeper role in their organization, and escape would become impossible. But now… we suffer terribly for it.”

---

🔹 Annotations (in English)

9–10. A Turn in Fortune

As summer wore on, my sores and wounds worsened, and I was increasingly too frail to perform any labor. Although I remained just outside the city walls, I dared not flee immediately. Even if I could escape, getting to Huai City would be even harder, especially since none of us could recognize the roads—to flee was almost certainly to die.

I resolved instead to wait for an opportunity and act when the time was right.

Later, the rebels reverently worshipped their "Heavenly Father" and were preparing to draft official documents. Jintan had now fallen. Lu the Scribe, greasy and sluggish, slouched in a chair; Li the Rebel Commander sat beside him. On the table before them lay fine yellow paper, sealed with a small bell-shaped stamp, as well as green silk nets and brushes.

Lu was a known killer. Like the others, he had a young rebel attendant at his side helping to pack water pipes. The others crowded around, watching.

Lu, with a brush in hand, hesitated for a long while before writing a few halting characters. He seemed unsure, and finally tore up the sheet, chewed the pieces, and spat them out, muttering curses as he did so.

I was standing behind another rebel, secretly watching. Suddenly, he barked:

“You dare look? Can you write?”

I quickly replied:

“Yes, I can.”

Lu grew angry and moved to strike me with a knife. But Li intervened, asking:

“Who is this?”

Another rebel answered:

“That’s Old Zhou.”

Li then said:

“If he can write, let’s see him try.”

They ordered me to step forward and write something for the Rebel Scribe to inspect. Seeing a chance to escape hard labor, I wrote three characters neatly: my surname, given name, and courtesy name, following the proper format.

Li read it aloud, clearly impressed. He praised my penmanship, claiming it looked very "official." In truth, the rebels were mostly illiterate, so to them, any halfway legible calligraphy appeared elegant. Lu, however, could read, and also expressed approval.

Lu then had me seated, gave me yellow paper, and had me copy the decree:

“Jintan has fallen. The heads of officials have been placed at the ancestral temple. The honor is offered to the Serving King. You must write this properly and respectfully.”

He instructed me on the format and language. I followed his guidance and completed the draft.

Lu’s anger subsided. He ordered me to read it aloud for Li, who was very pleased. He then said:

“Why didn’t you tell us you could write from the beginning?”

I replied:

“Had I spoken earlier, I feared it would complicate my escape. Now that we’re inside the city, there’s no way out. I might as well stay—after all, I’ve endured for four months without dying. What harm is there in helping now?”

Li smiled and nodded. They began to trust me deeply. Lu had someone prepare a sleeping space next to his own, and I was relieved from all physical labor. They even said I should only do clerical work, and no manual tasks.

I took the chance to recommend Qian Fubao and Lai Bao, saying they could help. The rebels eagerly agreed, and we were all allowed to live together in the same quarters.

From that day on, we were exempted from all the brutal assignments, including the next day's command to carry corpses out of the city—a task from which we were now spared.

---

🔹 Annotations (in English)

This was truly my painstaking effort—a way to rest my battered body while slowly considering an escape.

On the 19th, Wang the Iron Executioner came again. Lu, energetic and eager to kill, gleefully grabbed his knife and urged me to come with him. At the eastern and western wings of the Wenchang Hall, there were about sixty to seventy men, women, and children, who had hidden there for several days without food. Their faces were pale and spiritless.

Wang rushed into the right wing with his blade. Lu entered the left. Lu ordered me to kill, but I refused. I told him I was now their scribe and should not be asked to carry out executions again.

Lu began killing on his own—his blade fell, and lives were lost within moments. The ground turned red. One infant, barely a year old, was placed on his mother’s abdomen as if to shield it—but Lu killed the mother anyway. Then he pulled me to the right side, where Wang was still in the act of slaughter. Lu, by now exhausted, returned with a pale face, short of breath, and trembling.

He said:

“Why kill them all? They’ll die soon anyway. This isn’t the fastest I’ve ever killed before. Are you trying to shame me?”

I feared I’d be punished for speaking the truth, so I said nothing more.

Alas, men like this—if they could be granted long lives and power—there truly would be no heaven.

Then Lu ordered a boy named Chen to bring him burnt liquor, and he shouted to have hot water drawn for a bath. When the water arrived, he stomped about, screaming and cursing like a madman. After bathing, he sat smoking a dozen water-pipes before gradually returning to human form.

That evening, my relative Uncle Zhao arrived, along with a man from Jin County. The latter had a good scholarly reputation. He came to negotiate with Li the rebel leader, requesting that men be dispatched to clean up the temple halls, like the Main Hall of Ethics, to prepare them for storing grain and provisions.

Each of the two camps then sent a dozen men for the task. In Jin County’s temple, there were many spirit tablets for ancestors and sages. The rebels forced dozens of people to carry ropes, scouring the area for anything hidden. Suddenly, someone gave a shout, and a man collapsed. He had apparently been crushed under the weight, perhaps by one of the rebels from Hunan.

Stone slabs shattered, one man was seriously injured and barely breathing. It was feared he wouldn’t survive. Among the wounded was my cousin Xing, who later became crippled—thus I was the only one left capable of writing.

Since then, all clerical work fell to me alone.

Li the rebel came laughing one day and said:

“You say your name is Zhou, and this one is Qian? But both of you are actually surnamed Li—so you must be brothers! Your family lives in Tuxia Village, a place full of scholars. Why lie about your names? Were you trying to escape?”

He warned us not to think of escape again:

“I've already sent people to your home. Your fifth uncle has sent a message confirming you're still alive. Reading that brought me relief.”

He then showed me the letter—no envelope, just plain paper—but it was indeed in my uncle's handwriting:

“Knowing you’re still alive brings great comfort to us.”

Li continued:

“Even if your uncle is killed and your house burned, what is there left to say? You’re already here, and as scribes, your life is no longer hard. You might as well settle down. Wouldn’t I have sent guards to watch you if I didn’t care?”

I nodded and agreed, seeing resistance was useless. Once he left, I read the letter again. Though I felt a glimmer of joy, grief quickly returned—to be trapped, unable to leave, was agony. Still, knowing my uncle was alive and safe at home was a comfort.

Qian (Yingzhi) said:

“How could they have located our home? Who led them?”

Then, after some hesitation, he realized:

“It must have been Miss Long, the girl from Long family!”

Indeed, she had gone to the post station days earlier, and might have told the rebels where we were. She probably hoped we would know she was safe—and wanted us to know she remembered us.

Li sent Wang and Chen to escort her back. But fearing punishment, she dared not return—still, she seemed to have hoped her connection with the rebels might shield her from harm.

---

🔹 Annotations

The Tiger Bandits’ seventh decree offered a shallow sense of relief, but in the quiet of night, as I reflected, I realized that from now on, I could no longer remain among them without peril. I resolved to leave for another location when possible and be especially cautious in all things, leaving the rest to fate.

Not long after, Li the rebel leader sent me out again, accompanied by others. Among them was a newly transferred man to the post: an older gentleman referred to as "Sir," from Wuhu, Anhui, around sixty years old, with gray hair but a healthy complexion and gentle manner. He greeted people warmly. He was a Xiucai (a successful candidate in the imperial examinations) and a kind man—utterly different in temperament from Lu, the violent one.

Another arrival was a man surnamed Feng, from Hezhou, who understood a little literature but whose conduct was deeply lacking. Even so, I tolerated him quietly.

I said to myself, “Though my brother and I are now separated, perhaps those left behind in the rear can still be relied on.”

Later, Li began treating me better, offering warm words and more food. Pang’s daughter came again to visit me, offering me comfort. Though I was deeply humiliated by this, I refrained from complaint.

Two months passed. Then, Guofu (Pang Guofu?) came again, accompanied by a poet around fifty, ten or so young women, and a woman about forty years old. That woman was said to be Guofu’s younger sister, who had come to accompany her daughter.

Among them was an elderly man and a girl, said to be father and daughter surnamed Liu, associated somehow with the Ma family.

Li ordered Pang’s daughter to live and eat together with the girl’s father, providing mutual emotional comfort. The main residence was dominated by Guofu, who sat at the head of the table like an official, and often dined with the rebel chief as an equal.

Li, seeing my reaction, treated me with soft words. He arranged for the Liu father and daughter to stay at the west wing, and said:

“Let them rest well.”

No one understood his true intentions. Some speculated that he was preparing to assault them.

After dinner, a young rebel invited me inside and tried to persuade me to marry the Liu daughter. I refused firmly and left.

Soon after, I was again summoned. Lady Pang and others tried to speak gently and persuade me again, but when that failed, they tried to intimidate me, saying:

“She will only serve you. There’s no other intention.”

But I saw through this — it was clearly a ploy to make me stay, thinking I’d form attachments and give up escape.

I had no desire for this—living in the mouth of a tiger, unsure whether I'd live or die—I wasn’t going to indulge in romantic nonsense. I merely lay on the mat, wounded and cold. Even tea and rice tasted sweet when alive—what was the use of such honey traps?

The next day, Li pressed again. I was at my wit's end.

He had someone prepare a bedroom for me, and I feared I would not escape. I told Pang’s daughter:

“The chief's intentions are difficult to reject. But my wounds have not healed—both my wrists, both legs, and my chest are still festering. I need rest until spring; otherwise, it would hasten my death.”

She agreed. Then she delayed things by negotiating with the rebel women, buying me time.

At this time, a man named Qiao, a fellow captive, was sent with a document. Li asked me to copy it, but it was very long and required a ladder to hang. I refused, saying:

“The wound on my chest prevents me from climbing.”

Lu was also sick, and Feng was away. Li got angry, cursed me loudly, and tried to provoke Lu into anger so Lu would discipline me.

But I said:

“I’m not capable of it. If I am punished, I’ll accept it.”

Lu, angered, rushed out and tried to sharpen his brush (a metaphor for preparing to punish me). Li, seeing this, dragged Lu to the rebel headquarters to explain himself. Others intervened to calm them, but the tension between Lu and Li grew deeper.

Meanwhile, news arrived: the troops at the city gates had been ordered to move to Chizhou by January to defend it from government forces. I hoped this was my chance to leave.

This was what the rebels called a “post transfer.” I hoped to be sent far away, even with a bad group, rather than stay here under suspicion.

Li seemed suspicious, believing I wanted to escape and feared he’d lose control over me. But he knew I preferred the soft life of Jin City and wouldn’t choose the front lines. I feigned agreement to travel with Lu, and thought secretly:

“If my brother (Yingzhi) leaves the city the same day, then perhaps one of us may escape harm.”

Lu agreed happily, saying:

“You’ve spoken my heart. Let’s go!”

He said he’d go back to another station to retrieve something and set out with me on New Year’s Eve.

---

🔹 Key Annotations

Together with Xiao Chen and a man surnamed Nie, I made a secret pact and set out for Shicheng Hall. I was filled with sorrow and hatred, and I spoke frankly with Yingzhi. For this reason, we agreed to delay our departure for military strategy and proceed cautiously through the countryside.

We traveled light, taking small village paths through fields of sand and stones. Leaving the city, we headed toward Shenyang, worried that Yingzhi, traveling alone, might have trouble.

In Shiguan, there was a man surnamed Liu, an elderly farmer from Nanyang village, an honest and trustworthy man. I spoke to him and asked if he would accompany us. He said:

“My brother has dealings with you. Since you’re leaving, I will go too. But let us be very discreet, for one wrong move could cost us our heads.”

He agreed. Since bandits were everywhere, trees looked like rebels, and roads like traps, we forged documents and forged a seal to pass as locals. We planned to reach Zhenjiang, pass Mogang, and drift toward Yangzhou.

We parted with a heavy heart. Outside of Liu, no one else knew of our departure.

On the agreed day, I left with Bi and five others through the South Gate. We couldn’t even inform Yingzhi whether we were leaving, and once separated, no news could reach him.

Bi had trouble walking and suffered from blood loss. I myself was terribly weak. When we finally reached Hanyang, we found it guarded by rebels under the Rebel Emperor’s loyalists.

Among them was a rebel surnamed Bian, from northern China, an old acquaintance of Lu the bandit. We drank at his hall, but they wouldn’t let us stay overnight. The main manager was his adopted son, Guifang, a thin, handsome young man from Jiangxi, who had lived as a “public son” of the rebels for eight years.

He liked poetry and romantic prose and had a gentle appearance to match—I felt sorry for him, yet also ashamed of him.

The city had become the nest of the false regime, with a fake government established inside. The rebel hall was peaceful. People walked freely, mixing with common folk. Many locals had let their hair grow (symbolizing submission to rebel rule). At Hutan, trade resumed, the market streets rebuilt with straw huts, and street performers and women flocked to the area.

It was as if the fierce rebel spirit had been dulled by women, silk, and luxury, and peace returned—though deceptive.

I worried that after Yingzhi had returned home, the rebels from Jintan might arrive there. The family might claim he never returned and thus excuse themselves, but if they suspect my brother and I left together, they might investigate.

I also feared Guofu, that he might secretly turn against me and cause harm. Though my family had benefited from his kindness over generations, one cannot be sure of mercy in times of chaos.

These thoughts left me numb inside, with no hope or peace. I tried to plan my return, but found myself unable to lift a pen. The past few months—since the eighth lunar month of the gengshen year—were too full of horror to summarize. Every time I tried to write, I stopped, not knowing where to begin.

Most of the time, I lay in bed wrapped in blankets, occasionally scribbling something down, but mostly just surviving.

Later, Lu asked me to accompany him to the pharmacy stalls outside the west gate. He recognized one of the vendors and called me forward. Since he was there, I couldn’t speak freely. A few days later, I went back alone and asked the vendor about my home and whether Yingzhi had returned. He said:

“He left a long time ago, but no one knows where he is.”

I secretly plotted to return with him, but told Bi about it, who unfortunately informed Guifang. The news got to Li, and the plan was ruined—a perfect opportunity lost.

On the fifth lunar month, the rebels held a play outside the city, using performers they had captured. Lu insisted we go. The performers were all strong men with long hair, putting on exaggerated performances. I disliked it, especially in the sweltering heat, and wanted to leave early. Lu wouldn’t allow it.

Suddenly, I felt dizzy and fainted. Apparently, someone from Hunan, who happened to be carrying peaches, saw what happened and quickly inserted several dozen acupuncture needles to revive me. Blood flowed, and only then did I regain consciousness. I had been unconscious for quite some time.

Lu later said that had it not been for that man’s quick and skillful intervention, I would not have survived. He pierced the right pressure points and released dark, coagulated blood before I could breathe again.

I never got the man’s name, nor had the chance to thank him, but I remember him with a deep sense of guilt and gratitude.

 

《八且不才》

 

《八且不才》 (pronounced Bā qiě bù cái) is not a standard or commonly known historical or literary title, but based on the context of your excerpts and the linguistic components, here's a breakdown and possible interpretation:

🔍 Literal Breakdown:
八 (bā): the number eight.

且 (qiě): "also", "moreover", or sometimes a marker for continuation or pause in classical Chinese.

不才 (bù cái): "unworthy", "incompetent", "of little talent" — a humble self-reference often used by scholars or officials.

🧭 Interpretation:
1. As a Self-Deprecating Title (Most Likely)
"八且不才" likely functions as a modest self-styled title or chapter heading, meaning something like:

1.  

The man was about fifty years old, with graying beard and eyebrows, and a crane-like stature. It was said he once sold medicine in Huangzhou, which had been under bandit control for several years. Among those controlling the area was a seductive woman tied to the bandits; she had secretly become Guifang’s mistress for several months.

During the intense summer heat, Guifang, drunk, lay sleeping while the woman sought cool air in the courtyard. Lu, aware of the affair, informed the bandit Jiang, who was resentful. Jiang grew suspicious of Lu's knowledge and watched him closely, ultimately threatening Bi’s life. Xiao Chen, aware of this, warned Lu’s household. They feared retaliation and lived in constant unease.

By early July, Lu again invited others to watch a play. Suddenly, a man carrying a bird-hunting rifle arrived. He was from Jintan, a subordinate under the Li bandit, and originally from Fengyang. We were all startled, thinking Li’s forces had arrived.

Lu, seeing escape was futile, tried to calm everyone:

"I am also just passing through. My boat is moored at the riverbank. Why not go together?"

After questioning him multiple times, we believed him. Onboard were 8–9 people—his mother, wife, and a friend. He explained:

“I’m from Fengyang, heading to Suzhou. There’s a fake rebel governor there named Tian Hou, surnamed He. He sent word urging us to return. So now I’m taking my family back.”

I quickly asked whether anyone had come from Jintan or Shiminggan Hall. He said:

“Yes. There was a Mr. Qian from Shiguan and an old man surnamed Liu. They left on the same day.”

When both disappeared, the heads of our two halls reported to the bandit-in-chief, suspecting they had escaped and were refusing to go to Huizhou.

As a result, the rebels closed the gates and began a massive search. On the next day at noon, they still hadn't found them. Then 17 mounted rebels were dispatched in all directions to search.

Some who were captured were interrogated:

“Did anyone return by force?”
“No,” they said.

At that moment, Guofu came and asked:

“Did the Li bandits send someone to investigate your home?”

They responded:

“The hall master suspects they escaped with others. But after this, no one pursued it further.”

I finally felt a sense of calm—my heart was relieved. I considered it a blessing that Yingzhi made it home safely, and I was thankful my plan had succeeded.

1.  

But Lu, harboring guilt, feared that Jiang the bandit wouldn’t let it go. Guifang, already resentful, pressured Lu to flee to Suzhou together. Lu feared I might expose them, so he forced me to come along. He sent Xiao Chen back to retrieve some belongings.

That night, we boarded the boat. On the fifth day, we reached Suzhou. However, the bandit Liang, who was once a commander under the rebel "Heavenly Justice," had already left for Jiaxing and Shimen County.

As we passed Baodai Bridge in Taihu, we suddenly heard war horns and saw dozens of small boats approach. Gunfire broke out like rain. The bandits with us—over a dozen—fired back. Fang, one of the bandits, was shot in the left arm. He drew his knife, bound the wound, and urged the boat to move faster.

The gunfire roared. I was dizzy, my vision blurred. I thought to myself:

“If these are government troops, I’ll declare myself a civilian who suffered under the rebels—maybe I’ll be spared. But if they’re outlaws, there’s no hope.”

Moments later, the man manning the coffin was hit and fell into the lake. Fang took the rudder and fought hard to keep us going. Eventually, we escaped—it turned out these weren’t soldiers, but lake pirates hoping to rob us.

The next day, we arrived at Jiaxing, and later Shimen, where we met Liang. He was pleased to see Fang but worried about his injury. Fang's mother and wife were both strong, able-bodied women, suitable even for front-line duty.

The rebels had occupied Huai'an, and my wounds had worsened—both arms ulcerated, the infection difficult to contain.

Though we weren’t strictly guarded, we were growing increasingly distant from the capital. Though not shackled, we lived like prisoners. This deeply frustrated me, and I wept often.

By late September, the rebels began attacking Hangzhou. Deng Guangming left for battle, and Liang stayed behind while Fang was stationed at Shimen. I had no tasks and spent my days idly, scribbling characters to pass the time.

Suddenly, Xiao Chen brought a parcel from my hometown—inside were several torn dictionaries. I was overjoyed, treating them as treasures.

Meanwhile, 4–5 locals who had recently joined our hall tried to escape. That night, 3 were captured and were to be executed. Lu had already drawn his blade.

I hurriedly pleaded with Fang:

“Yes, these men tried to escape and deserve punishment. But we are all civilians forced to serve. Please, let me guarantee they won’t try again.”

Lu looked at me and smiled. Fang agreed. They asked me to tattoo marks on the escapees, but I convinced them otherwise.

Fang, fond of Buddhist teachings and karma, respected me. Lu, also suffering from illness, had become less cruel.

On October 10th, military reinforcements arrived:

• Wang Zhongcheng, Commander of the County

• Zhang, the Provincial Scholar

• General Changjie, Chief Commander Chunwen

• Provincial Governor Ruining

• Inspector Hu Dao

• and other officials...

Some were executed, others were conscripted or given false positions by the rebels. There were even those who, having surrendered, continued to harm the people.

What a tragedy—those who refused to die for their cause, what were they thinking?

Eventually, Liang ordered Fang to remain in Shimen and later followed Zhongdao to attack Hangzhou. Deng Guangming, ever drunk, was made a general.

 

When Gu Yan, Feng Ru, Gui Wang, and the fake general Tong Ronghai were ordered to defend Hangzhou, but were not reassigned, the rebel leader Liang then dispatched Fang and about thirty others to go. On the fifteenth day of the tenth month, they arrived in Keqiao, where the traitor had occupied the Provincial Administration Office, and another group of rebels held the lower side of Wangxian Bridge. The so-called “Commissioner” became our host; we (the narrator’s group) were lodged nearby in a warehouse seized by Liang’s men.

Hangzhou had been besieged for over two months, and water access was cut off. Supplies had long run dry, and many starved to death. Even twenty days after the city's fall, corpses still lay on the roadside, and some desperate people had resorted to eating human flesh. Witnessing this was heartbreaking and brought me to tears.

I once pleaded with Fang, asking him to request Liang to distribute rice and grain to the starving. Some rebels disapproved, but the measure was carried out for a few days. Were Liang not a favored subordinate of the usurper, it would never have been possible.

Soon after, strict orders were issued. Each squad's leader had to register and submit lists of people: those "in the front ranks" and "in the rear ranks." The traitor sat in the main hall wearing a yellow robe and crown—modeled after an emperor’s—with bronze wristlets on each arm and large beads hanging around his neck. Before him sat Fang, recording names.

Fake officials known as "military administrators" sat around him. The "chief scribes" numbered over ten. Name rolls were called, and theatre-like ceremonial routines were observed—some were punished merely for saying the leader's tabooed name aloud.

After two days, it was claimed that over sixty thousand people had been registered—one-seventh in the front lines, and two to three-tenths in the rear. Fewer than a thousand were women. They were all counted meticulously to calculate daily rations. This tally included only one faction under the usurper, and was not even the whole of it.

Despite the horror, the rebels celebrated festivals, wearing bright clothes, parading through the streets, blowing horns and drums. Some rode horses adorned with red or yellow streamers. Each had a few minions around them and one “foreign man” (likely a traitor or foreign mercenary). When they visited any building, they would demand homage. Any minor official had to kneel before them, even just slightly, to show submission.

Many women known as “great madams” (wives of rebel leaders) dressed extravagantly, their heads wrapped with embroidered scarves, painted faces, and guarded by servants while riding horses. No one found this strange anymore.

One female rebel, called Jiang Zibao, was known to perform “coin-spinning” stunts from the Qianlong era. She would host noisy nightly gatherings that lasted until dawn. Public administration was nonexistent. Even minor disputes led to sword threats.

All grain depots were under Liang's control. Dozens of warehouses stored thousands of bushels. The rebel "Military Administration Office" was run directly by Liang. At first, six or seven guards were posted, later rotated. Civil officials, like Qian and Ren, supervised the warehouses.

Even in the rebels' hierarchy, there was still something akin to a "county magistrate," who would report to the usurper to receive rations from the grain depot.

I (the narrator) once went to the office under Fang’s command, where we were temporarily housed. I met two women there, who were straightforward and honest, especially two named Yu and Zhang, who were gentle and reasonable. During crises, when punishment loomed, I tried to comfort and guide them with ethics and principle, and they respected me deeply—treating me like family.

This took place in the first year of the Tongzhi reign, second month of spring.

---

“Staring at the distant clouds, I wondered who was still alive back home. The capital was sealed, and I longed for news. I dared not return. If only I could find a trusted local companion, perhaps I might escape this web. I began plotting with men like Xu and Zhang who handled kitchen matters. They were too busy to help directly, but I hoped someone nearby might quietly aid me.”

Then, someone named Xu told me that in Qinglong Street, near the left gate, there was a person named Ni, said to have worked as a secretary under the provincial governor. They had recently captured someone. I only heard he was surnamed Hu, and that since he was a government official, he refused to confess, nearly tortured to death.

Yesterday he was still alive, saved by someone who pleaded for mercy.

I went with Xu to see him. Just as we sat down, two small rebels dragged out an old man of about fifty, dressed simply, head wrapped in red cloth. He offered no resistance, only despair. We asked, “Who are you?”

 

A rebel named Tianzhen had arrested a man in Jiang’an, believing him to be a government official concealing his identity. He interrogated him harshly, threatening to execute him. As the rebels were about to kill the man, he claimed he had only stepped aside to relieve himself.

I (the narrator) stepped forward and asked, “Sir, what is your surname?” The man stared at me without a word. I quietly said, “Do not be afraid. I have come to save you. I already know a bit about your background, so don’t try to lie to me.”

The man, surnamed Hu, burst into tears and said, “I have narrowly escaped death many times. I will not hide the truth. I once served as a guest retainer for a minor official in Jianmen... but what kind of person are you, to be willing to speak up for me at such a moment?”

He continued, “Since I’ve been discovered, I know I can’t flee. Please take me with you if you truly mean to help.”

Ni, the rebel overseeing the warehouse and subordinate to Liang, saw me as someone from Liang’s faction and was hesitant. He said, “Sir, there’s no need to take him away. I promise not to mistreat him. I’ll clothe and feed him. He may accompany you if he wishes—but if not, then not. I’ll leave it to him.”

I insisted, “No. Your words are not trustworthy. I must take him with me.” Xu (another companion) also spoke in support. Finally, Ni relented.

Still, fearing I had ulterior motives, Ni asked me to submit a written statement. I complied and wrote:

“This man, Hu, was arrested for allegedly hiding his identity. But such things are common in troubled times and not necessarily suspicious. I, hearing of his plight, came to rescue him out of basic humanity. I have no ulterior motives. Moreover, we will soon report to Liang; many there know of this matter. This should prove that my actions are public, not secret.”

Ni accepted the explanation. I took Hu back to the warehouse with me.

Once there, I gently inquired about his background. He revealed that he was from Wucheng County, a “Presented Scholar” named Hu Chang, styled Meikun, formerly a guest adviser in Commissioner Wang’s office. He had earned a fifth-rank military title for service during wartime, but when the city fell, he was captured.

I told him of my own misfortunes. We sympathized with each other deeply and began sharing our daily lives. Meikun was a man of classical learning and wrote poetry well. As I was often melancholic amid the rebels, I composed poems to express my frustrations and shared them with him for critique. He offered thoughtful feedback.

We grew closer—he even remarked that the poetic commentary in the Shishuo Xinyu (A New Account of the Tales of the World) seemed to live again through our discussions.

He once joked that I was like an old-fashioned uncle in the school of poetry.

Alas, Meikun passed away the following year.

His poetry was filled with emotion and literary flair. He was modest and open-minded, skillful in many arts. He was especially meticulous in crafting his verses, ensuring that not a single word was redundant. He once praised my poetic style as:

“Though spontaneous, your work contains natural spirit. Like the ancients, it finds its own order.”

This friendship and literary exchange remain among the deepest impressions of that chaotic time.

---

As the rebel army surged eastward toward Zhejiang, new captives—especially from the countryside—were brought in. One day, a man named Xu returned, saying a young woman, recently captured, had been dragged to our area.

She sobbed all day and nearly took her own life, begging me to let her go. I said, “Even if I let you go, the area is overrun. You may not survive out there. Be patient; perhaps a safer opportunity will arise.”

Meikun and others also consoled her, and she eventually calmed down.

We later coordinated with men from Yin and Qian counties, who had come to collect government rice. They were scribes from government offices. Among them was one named Yi, who offered to smuggle letters for me back to Shaoxing.

I prepared two identical letters—one for him to carry, and one to be delivered upon arrival. He would receive ten stones of rice as compensation, but I warned him that he must bring back the signed receipt to confirm delivery.

I also secretly included a poem, wrapped within the letter, in case the formal document was intercepted.

 

Someone said again, “Those who haven't yet reported to the Heavenly Lord should all be taken together and return the contracts. Once verified, the supplies will be distributed equally. Everyone swore not to deceive or withhold.” Each person received a contract—if the handwriting and poetry matched, the supplies would be granted without dispute.

Yet Xu, Zhang, and the others were not trustworthy. I dared not save people recklessly, lest I endanger myself.

Bai Can once told me, “The reason I’ve delayed making an escape plan until now is because I’ve been getting closer to home, but I still don’t know the route. I dare not go blindly. Do you really think I want to remain trapped in this city?”

I said, “You understand my heart. If I could just travel with someone who knows the way, and make it to Shanghai, where old friends like Wu Pingzhai and Zhao Yinjia are—both now in the governor’s office—I wouldn’t have to worry about survival.”

But I didn’t know the roads, so I had to find someone local.

Suddenly, I remembered Shao Ziyun, a licentiate (茂才) from Hangzhou, who had also been captured when the city fell. He was being held in a rebel lodge. The next day, I borrowed someone’s name to go visit him, but there wasn’t time for a proper conversation. The day after, I sent Xu to invite him to me.

Ziyun and I soon reacquainted ourselves and began meeting regularly—drinking wine and composing poetry to find joy amid the suffering. He came and went frequently, sometimes staying overnight elsewhere. No one noticed him in the granary area, so he could come and go freely.

On May 3rd, we gathered near Wangxian Bridge with Fang and Fang’s assistant for a small planning session. At that time, even Xu and Zhang, despite their usual shadiness, showed genuine admiration and deference toward me.

By the end of May, I discussed escape again with Mei Gui and Ziyun. Ziyun said:

“My family estate is just outside the city in the Xianhu Village area. There’s a country house we can rest in after escaping the city. From there, we can await the right moment to move again.”

He asked, “Do you have money for the journey?”

I replied, “Liang’s rebel force gives me 100 qian every week for small expenses, but Xu and Zhang usually use it to buy wine. So I don’t have much saved.”

Ziyun suggested, “Why not get more by requesting it through Zhu and Wang, using forged orders?”

Then he pointed to a man skilled in organizing rice allocations—he was clever in hoarding supplies and might be useful for funding the escape. I agreed. When the rice came, I personally went to inspect it. Out of what was supposed to be 100 shi (a unit of rice), only 17 shi were genuine—the rest were counterfeit tokens.

I said, “Shanghai is not far. Let’s prepare. We’ll hide this real rice allocation among us—each person will wrap a portion around the waist.”

We agreed to depart on the first day of the sixth lunar month.

My clothing was all made of plain white cotton in the style favored by the rebels. My hair was bound with black thread—the local custom. Nothing about my appearance would raise suspicion.

Inside my sleeve, I kept a blue cloth quilt. Ziyun carried a straw mat; Mei Gui brought a pair of shears; my son carried scissors and a sewing kit. I also carried needles for first aid.

I said, “I’ll go first to answer any guards' questions. Once I’m through, Ziyun follows. I’ll take the middle position. Mei Gui will be in the rear.”

On the night of the fifth day, after dinner, I said to Xu and Zhang:

“You too have wives and families. Like me, you’ve suffered misfortune. Some of us were forced into joining the rebels—not by choice, but because our homes were ruined, and there was nowhere else to go. But unlike those who surrendered willingly, we still have a conscience. We must strive to remain good people, even here. Waiting for the right moment to escape is the best long-term plan.”

Xu said, “It feels like the whole world is becoming rebel territory. Where can we go?”

I said, “Shanghai is still a place to survive. It all depends on our will. I plan to leave tomorrow.”

I left a note on my bed, addressed to Liang, Lu, Fang, and the rebel commanders. It was a farewell message, urging them to reform and repent. I warned that indulgence in luxury and lust would not last, and advised them to consider cooperating with the government forces. I hoped this message might soften their hearts.

 

Internal Collaborators and the Plan to Surrender the City

There were plans to open the gates from within or seize an opportunity to rally the rebels and turn against them, to kill the enemy leaders and surrender to the government troops in hopes of redeeming oneself. Outside of that, there was no good end.

I laughed and said, “Even if it's futile, I’ll write what I truly feel.” On the morning of the sixth day, Yu Yun came. We sent Xu, Zhang, and the others off on various errands. I went with Mei She and Yu Yun, aiming to leave the city through the Ganshan Gate. The guards there didn’t hinder us, but the river blocked our way—we could not cross—so we reentered the city.

We tried again at Wulin Gate. There, the rebel guards questioned us. I claimed that I had been sent by Liang’s rebel authority to retrieve grain from the city outskirts. They let us pass after some casual conversation. We walked less than a hundred paces before turning right and heading north to Zhao Dongjia’s home. The house was still there, but deserted. Occasionally, rebel patrols passed through.

We climbed upstairs to hide. I first let down my hair, then shaved it off with scissors, leaving just an inch—suitable for a Hangzhou man’s appearance. We descended the stairs and took side roads, planning to head east toward the coast.

In the countryside west of Zhejiang, although rebels controlled everything, they pretended to maintain order, and local people carried on trading as usual. Goods were extremely expensive—a bundle of firewood cost a hundred qian. On the ninth, we hadn’t yet reached Haining when, during breakfast, someone shouted that tens of thousands of rebels were approaching. Locals panicked. We fled down a narrow path, reaching a secluded rural house.

Zi Yun suggested avoiding the coastal road due to blockades and instead retracing our steps to cross the Qiantang River via Shaoxing, and then continue elsewhere. That night we slept in the open. The next day, still unable to travel due to confusion about the roads, we returned to the path near Wangjiang Gate and crossed the river.

At Zhe Mountain, we stopped at a teahouse for refreshments, when suddenly we were warned that troops from Xiaoshan, seeking revenge, were killing anyone resembling a rebel. A guard captain from the east had just arrived. We were forced across the river, jostled by a frightened crowd.

We barely made it across without capsizing. Reaching the shore, we collapsed, exhausted and starving. I said, “We can’t stay here. Let’s travel overnight by moonlight. There’s a temple up ahead—I have an old friend nearby.” So we continued on to the small temple.

There we found a shrine with broken tiles, a cracked pot, and a thatched roof. The caretaker was alarmed by our arrival. We said, “We are just travelers. Please don’t be afraid.”

I asked, “What are you cooking? May we share a little?” He replied, “You may, if you can pay. Food is scarce.” I gave him 100 qian. Zi Yun fetched water, and we boiled sweet potatoes. Unaware that they needed peeling, we ate them skin-on. Soon, mosquitoes swarmed us; their buzz roared like thunder. We couldn’t sleep. I wanted to ask the caretaker for directions, but he had already gone to sleep.

Zi Yun, cheerful and broad-minded, joked:

“Even though tonight’s meal was so miserable, it’s still better than being trapped with the rebels. We should be grateful—we’ve escaped that evil! Even if we die tomorrow, isn’t this still better?”

I added, “Indeed, dying here is better than living as a slave in that wicked world.”

On the seventeenth, we woke at dawn to find the caretaker gone. Only a cracked pot remained. We continued north and arrived at Tangxi Town by midday, where we managed a modest meal. Then we trekked northwest for a few more miles. Zi Yun collapsed from exhaustion and heatstroke. He lay on the ground, saying he wished to die.

I pricked his lips with a needle to draw blood, then forced some medicine into his mouth. When it wouldn’t go down, we rushed to a pond, fetched water, and poured it down his throat. He coughed and revived.

We resumed the journey, enduring blistering heat, heavy rain, hunger, and open-air sleeping. Everyone was still in mourning, which worsened the burden. We never knew the roads and often lost our way.

After eight days, we finally reached Wuzhen, a border town between two provinces, bustling with markets despite being under rebel control. Mei She's younger brother ran a silk shop there and welcomed us. He fed us and helped us rest.

By then, Mei She had fallen ill. His brother suggested Zi Yun and I continue ahead, but Mei She, unwilling to abandon those who had suffered alongside him, asked us to wait.

In early July, Mei’s brother arranged for our departure. Because rebel patrols blocked the main routes, we traveled only at night, through narrow tributaries. Our boat was fragile and flat-bottomed. The boatman warned us not to move or we might capsize. Even for relieving oneself, we had to go ashore.

The heat was unbearable, yet we dared not fall asleep. If one of us nodded off and moved suddenly, the boat might tip. The others would shake the sleeper awake.

On the ninth, we reached Nan’ao and finally exited rebel territory. We shaved our heads to pass checkpoints. The guards demanded our silver and paper notes, then let us go.

“Ah! Freedom at last!”

We celebrated together, boarding another boat bound for Shanghai. We had survived.

 

Some urged that we open the city gates from within or use the chaos to lead a rebel split, kill our captors, and surrender to the government troops—hoping to atone. Without such a bold act, there was no dignified death. Damarsun said knowing it was pointless didn’t stop him from writing truthfully with a wry smile: “Even if it fails, at least it’s an escape.”

On the morning of the sixth, Yu Yun arrived. We sent Xu, Zhang, and others on errands, while I, Mei She, and Yu Yun attempted to sneak out through Ganshan Gate. Rebels at the gate did not obstruct us. However, a river blocked our way, so we returned to the city.

We tried again at Wulin Gate. The guards questioned us, and I explained we were summoned by Liang’s men to collect grain from an outside warehouse. They accepted it and let us through quietly. After a hundred steps, we turned right and headed north toward Zhao Dong’s residence. The house stood abandoned, though the structure remained.

To avoid passing rebels, we hid upstairs. We lowered our hair and cut it short—about an inch long—to resemble Hangzhou citizens. We descended and slipped through narrow alleys, planning to head east toward the sea.

The region of western Zhejiang had long been under rebel control. Rebels falsely claimed to bring peace and showed signs promising protection, so locals felt no fear and traded as usual. Prices soared: one bundle of charcoal already cost one hundred qian.

On the ninth, while still west of Haining, rumors swept through that tens of thousands of rebels were approaching. Locals panicked. We fled through a narrow trail to a deserted farmhouse deep inside the countryside.

Zi Yun suggested crossing the Qiantang River at Shaoxing instead of coastal roads blocked by rebels. That night we slept under dew. The next day, still unable to proceed due to disorientation, we stumbled along a sandy path. Only on the sixteenth, before noon, did we reach Wangjiang Gate and cross the river.

Landing, we stopped at a muddy plain near Zhe Mountain and intended to rest at a tea stall. Suddenly we were warned that troops from Xiaoshan were carrying out reprisals against suspected rebels. A local militia captain warned us: “They kill indiscriminately.” We were pushed into a crowd and forcibly ferried across the river. Despite overcrowding, our boat did not capsize.

Exhausted and breathless upon arrival, we lay flat on the riverbank, trembling. Hunger gnawed us dry; stomachs knotted painfully. I said, “We can’t stay here. Let’s move by moonlight tonight.”

We moved under low moonlight toward a shrine—a small temple with a cracked tinsled roof. The caretaker was startled by our presence, but I said, “We’re just passing travelers. Please don’t worry.”

“What are you cooking?” I asked. “May we share a cup?”

He replied that he didn’t know how much it was worth, but he would share if we could pay. I gave him 100 qian. Zi Yun fetched water. We boiled sweet potatoes, unaware they needed peeling. We ate them with the skins, ravenously. Soon, our stomachs bloated and galloped with cramps; mosquitoes buzzed furiously into the night. We were too exhausted to sleep.

I wanted to ask for direction, but the caretaker slept before I could speak.

 

The sweet potatoes remained hard and uncooked, but we were too hungry to care. Each of us grabbed four or five pieces and ate them with the skin still on. Soon, our stomachs swelled. Mosquitoes buzzed like thunder, unrelenting. Exhaustion overwhelmed us; sleep was impossible.

I wanted to ask our host for directions, but he had already fallen sound asleep. Zi Yun was generally carefree, even jovial, but now he looked drained and tense. Every now and then, he forced a laugh to lighten the mood. Meng Shou tried to cheer us with sayings. I remarked, “Though the food is crude and this hardship near unbearable, tonight feels freer than our days within the rebels’ camp.”

“They say,” I continued, “if one hears the Way in the morning, one may die in the evening without regret. For me, even if I die tonight in the bushes, I am content. Why shouldn’t I be?” And truly, death did not seem the worst.

“Let us remember this dinner—unpeeled sweet potatoes, eaten while swatting mosquitoes. This is a night we’ll never forget.”

On the seventeenth, at dawn, the beggar had already gone. Only a cracked rice pot remained. We resumed our northward journey. Soon we reached Tangxi Town, where we managed to eat some dried fish. Then we veered northwest, walking just a few li under the scorching midday sun.

Zi Yun, overcome by heat and hunger, collapsed to the ground, pale and desperate, whispering he was near death. I tried to comfort him: “Panic does no good.” I pricked his lip with a needle to draw blood, then slipped some medicine into his mouth, but he couldn’t swallow.

Desperate, I ran to a nearby pond, scooped up some water with a broken wheel hub, and poured it down his throat. He gagged and coughed. Meng Ban, fanning beside him, helped revive him.

From that moment, we all learned the method—and it worked whenever someone collapsed.

We resumed the journey under blazing sun and sudden rainstorms, often sleeping exposed under the night sky. Food was scarce, and hunger constant. Everyone, even if still alive, was draped in mourning clothes. There was no day without suffering. We lost our way often and wandered in circles.

After eight days of arduous trekking, we reached Wuzhen, a market town straddling the border of two provinces and one prefecture. Though occupied by rebels, commerce still thrived, almost as if peace had returned.

Meng She’s younger brother ran a silk shop there. He welcomed us into his home, offered food and rest. His kindness was overwhelming, and at last, we had a moment to plan our next steps. But just then, Meng She fell ill.

His brother urged Zi Yun and me to go ahead. But Meng She, loyal to our shared hardship, wouldn’t hear of splitting up. So we stayed.

In early July, after recovering a bit, Meng She’s brother arranged for us to take a small boat. Since rebel patrols infested the main routes, we traveled mostly at night, sliding along side canals and hidden inlets.

If the route was blocked, we’d double back to find another way. The boat was light and unstable. The boatman constantly warned us not to move—any shift could capsize it. Even to relieve ourselves, we had to go ashore.

The heat was suffocating. We dared not fall asleep. If anyone dozed off and leaned too far, the others quickly shook them awake—any tilt of the body could tip the boat.

Though our bodies trembled from exhaustion, our hearts felt oddly calm.

On the ninth, we arrived at Nanwo—at last, beyond the rebel-occupied zone. As we shaved our heads to change our appearance and handed over our remaining silver coins, we felt a strange joy: our lives were our own again.

Oh, what joy! What joy!

We boarded another boat together and resumed our journey. Ten mu of land had already been sold to afford this escape.

 

After one hundred days, I finally arrived in Shanghai and rejoiced at having survived. Mei Ze (Mei She) soon visited officials such as Yinwu the Inspector, Bantang Heng Zihua, and Qingmu Weng. He settled temporarily in the Xinbeimen district. As for me, I found shelter in a guesthouse in Jixian Lane. My resources were completely depleted; I had nothing left but a few items from my time among the bandits—just a few bundles: a green mosquito net, sixty copper coins, a cloth pillow, a water bowl, a fish, a snake, a fan from Qin—only enough to survive for three days.

Three days later, Mei She introduced me to his fellow townsman, Mr. Wu Putang, a scholar who handled clerical matters for the imperial court and was a cousin of Wen Pingzhai, the provincial inspector.

Alas, it had been eleven months since the calamity struck. Such a long time! All that I experienced and witnessed—countless sufferings, endless hardship, the most extreme cruelty—who could say I had not reached the very limits of human endurance? And yet, here I still live, bearing my head upon my shoulders. How can I not reflect on the pain after having survived it? Thus, I casually committed these scattered memories to paper under the title “A Record of the Illness of the Mind” (思病記), in hopes of leaving behind a warning for future generations. Let those who read this be cautioned early: do not take peace for granted, do not delay until ruin comes and it is too late to escape.

This was written by my friend Mr. Li Daonian, as a recollection of the ordeal he endured during the chaos and his time among the rebels. Mr. Li once said to me:

"This sickness is not mine alone to suffer, nor is it only the pain of a few—it is the affliction of millions living under rebel occupation. And this suffering did not come solely from the bandits—it was summoned by the people themselves.
Had our families foreseen the disaster and fled early, none of this would have been necessary.
This is my fault.
We humans too often wait, paralyzed by indecision, failing to act until disaster strikes.
If one is lucky, he may barely survive, like me—escaping death by a hair.
But if unlucky, death will come swiftly, and there will be no chance for return.
So why bother recording this history, or writing these words?"

I listened to him and replied, "Yes, yes—please allow me to help you put your thoughts into writing."

—Respectfully written by Jin Lian, a fellow townsman,
in the late autumn of the 6th year of Guangxu (1880).

 

📖 Question:

So was it really because these refugees fled too late that they caused harm to their families?

📜 Quoted Original Text:

“This suffering is not just the pain of my own family, but the pain of the millions in regions occupied by the rebels; it is not that the rebels were capable of destroying everyone and bringing such suffering, but rather that everyone summoned this pain upon themselves. Had my family known to flee earlier, this pain could have been avoided; this is my fault.”

📚 Historical Context (1860, Xianfeng 10th Year, Fall of Nanjing):

In the intercalary third month of Xianfeng 10 (May 1860), the Taiping forces broke through the Qing defense lines, and Nanjing fell.
Before this, the Jiangnan Battalion had suffered repeated defeats, but the Qing court continually claimed “the rebels are under control” and “reinforcements are coming.”
The people of Nanjing, deprived of accurate information, misled by officials, and facing chaotic military leadership and logistical hardship, had great difficulty making decisive choices.
Many believed “the city is secure” and “Qing troops still hold the line,” unaware that disaster was imminent.
Once the city fell, Taiping troops looted and killed en masse, leaving ordinary citizens no time to escape.
For intellectuals and gentry like Li Gui, loyalty to the state and trust in the army made it even harder to abandon their homes and flee in time.

🔍 Interpretation (Text-faithful + Historical Context):

Li Gui wrote:
“Had my family known to flee earlier, this pain could have been avoided; this is my fault.”
→ This is a post-trauma moral self-reproach, written from hindsight.

But he also says:
“It is not that the rebels could kill everyone and cause this pain, but rather that everyone summoned it upon themselves.”
→ He extends blame not to any individual alone, but to a widespread societal failure—the chronic indecision and delay among both commoners and officials: “day-by-day delay,” “failure to act when it was time to act.”

✅ Conclusion (Text-faithful + Contextualized):

According to Li Ke's words:
“Had my family known to flee earlier, this pain could have been avoided; this is my fault.”
— In Li Gui’s view, yes—if they had fled earlier, the tragedy could have been avoided. He holds himself partially responsible.

Yet he also says:
“It is not that the rebels brought this pain, but that people summoned it themselves.”
— This was not just the error of one man or one family, but the common fault of millions, of a society plagued by “daily procrastination” and “hesitation in moments of decision.”
Though the rebels were violent, the pain was not by their hand alone—it was a pain summoned by men themselves.
Those who fell into rebel hands were not all weak or unwise, but rather caught in a system where choices were stripped away.

At that time, people did not delay because they wished to, but because circumstances constrained them, information failed, the enemy struck swiftly, and governance collapsed.
So the notion of “fleeing too late” is not merely an individual failure, but the result of cosmic breakdown and human disarray.