Eighteenth-century missionaries portrayed this distant Eastern empire in glowing terms: how patient, modest, and courteous its rulers were, and how simple and kindhearted its commoners were.
Yet in the eyes of the Qing Empire's rulers, the queue represented submission, and anyone who did not wear one was suspected of rebellion. Pirates also sometimes forced commoners to join them. As everyone knew, every country punished piracy severely. Captured pirates were not merely hanged; they were put on display, suspended in conspicuous places at the harbor like foul-smelling wind chimes.
Members of the Tiandi Society carefully concealed their rebellious ideas, much like members of Freemasonry in Europe. Pirates, however, did not. They showed no mercy to soldiers, sailors, or commoners loyal to the Great Qing. When faced with suppression, they either resisted stubbornly or fled at the first sign of danger, waiting for another chance to establish themselves in coastal villages and on islands. They even issued passes to tributary villages and towns; with such a document, one could pass safely even if one encountered pirates. This was the opposite of Europe. Without a so-called letter of marque, any cargo aboard a ship encountered by privateers belonged to those licensed pirates. With one, they could not seize the ship's supplies—unless it encountered actual pirates.
The court showed absolutely no leniency toward rebels. That was precisely why, when Qianlong ordered the extermination of the Queue-Cutting Demon Party, the authorities used torture without restraint.
The Censorate's censors were furious over the abuse of torture, yet county magistrates acted arbitrarily and without fear. The magistrates themselves, or even their advisers, could use the opportunity for extortion. The more people implicated in a case, the more profit they stood to make. The yamen runners did everything they could to fan the flames, wantonly arresting innocents on