Early that morning, William Thompson was brushing his teeth and washing his face by the well in the courtyard. In the Ming Dynasty, there were no toothbrushes or toothpaste—he just used a piece of soft wood dipped in green salt to rinse his mouth. It was early winter, and the well water was icy cold and bone-chilling. Even though William Thompson was young and full of vigor, he was still shivering from the cold, his hands so stiff they felt like pickled chicken feet, unable to even grip the towel. In a fit of frustration, he simply stopped using his hands altogether and plunged his head straight into the washbasin. Just then, the courtyard gate was knocked on with a rapid and urgent ‘bang! bang!’ William Thompson got water up his nose from the shock… “What is it?” he opened the door with a sullen face, a large wet patch visible on his chest. The one knocking was one of his trusted yamen runners, Henry Bolton, who, unaware of the trouble he’d caused his boss, hurriedly reported, “Boss! There’s a fight over territory at the small drill ground.”

William Thompson immediately perked up and ordered, “You go gather the brothers first, I’ll check in at the yamen and be right there.”

Where William Thompson lived was less than a hundred paces from the county yamen—just a hundred-meter dash and he was there. He signed in at the guardroom, then immediately mounted his horse and sped toward the small drill ground. The small drill ground was located at the southeast corner of the county town’s ‘field’ grid layout, a gathering place for the poor of Linhuai County. It was a former military training ground, now serving as Linhuai County’s ‘human resources market,’ specializing in the sale of all kinds of slaves.

There were many wealthy families in Linhuai County, and most of their servants were bought here. With the New Year approaching, business was booming, and the slave traders would bring out all their stock at this time, so incidents were frequent. Every few days there would be trouble—sometimes a victim would find a kidnapped relative, sometimes it was a dispute between slave traders. Lately, there had been disturbances almost every day.

As the head of public security, William Thompson was equipped with a horse—just like how modern leaders have official cars, it was a status symbol. The yellow dun horse galloped swiftly down the bustling street. “Out of the way!” William Thompson shouted, his presence intimidating, sending pedestrians scrambling to both sides. Five or six yamen runners in uniform followed close behind, and seeing the crowd scatter in panic, they couldn’t help but feel a rush of satisfaction—their dignity greatly boosted. This, too, was a kind of leadership art. He couldn’t bring his men the wealth that his predecessor had, but at least he could satisfy them spiritually. If there was neither profit nor pride, who would be willing to work for him?

Soon, William Thompson and his men arrived at the small drill ground. Some yamen runners had already gotten there, but the situation was still out of control. Shouts, curses, and cries blended into a chaotic uproar—it seemed the trouble had escalated. Seeing their boss arrive, another trusted aide, Samuel Williams, hurried over to report, “Boss, it’s Carol Shaw and Charles Young fighting over the market spot by the gate. Charles Young was killed by Carol Shaw.”

Carol Shaw and Charles Young were two slave traders in Linhuai County—what we’d call ‘agents’ today—both quite powerful. The trouble started when another trader quit two days ago, leaving the best market spot vacant, which led to a fight between the two. In the end, it was a fatal dispute over profit: the weaker Charles Young was killed by Carol Shaw.

William Thompson was startled—now that someone had died, the case had become a criminal matter, no longer under his jurisdiction. He quickly told Henry Bolton, “Go fetch Second Brother King right away and tell him there’s been a death here.”

Henry Bolton ran off to deliver the message, but the chaos at the small drill ground hadn’t subsided. Of the two main parties, one was dead and the other had fled, leaving only their families and followers brawling in the square. Meanwhile, the ‘goods’—over three hundred slaves—were huddled, trembling in the corner, terrified for their fate.

“Stop it, all of you!” William Thompson charged in on horseback. Although the Ming Dynasty didn’t have guns to fire warning shots, there were still effective methods. He drew his sword and roared, “If anyone dares to keep fighting, I’ll treat it as rebellion!”

Rebellion meant extermination of nine generations. Both sides immediately quieted down, slowly separating but still glaring at each other, the tension thick in the air. A dozen or so people were still grappling and wrestling, so William Thompson spurred his horse forward, brandishing his sword menacingly. This finally broke them up, though they were still too close for comfort. William Thompson glared at both sides from horseback, and everyone nervously took another step back. In the bleak wind, William Thompson sat tall on his horse, feeling a bit like Zhang Fei at Changban Bridge, roaring back an army of a million.

With a death involved, the yamen runners immediately sealed off both exits, not allowing anyone to escape. By now, crowds of onlookers and slave buyers had surrounded the small drill ground, three or four layers deep, craning their necks to see what was happening, chattering among themselves.

“Make way! Make way!” A squad of yamen runners rushed in at the entrance, led by Sheriff King, who had a bit of a cold today and spoke in a muffled voice, “Fifth brother, I heard there’s been a death?”

“Slave traders got into a fight—Shaw killed Young. We got here too late, and Shaw has already fled,” William Thompson shrugged regretfully.

“Master King, you must give me justice!” Charles Young’s wife threw herself in front of Sheriff King, wailing loudly, “Master King, you must stand up for us!”