My thanks, by the way, to @Cataquack Warrior and @SilentSpaniard for being so kind as to nominate me for the 2024 Turtledoves - Best Early Modern Timeline (go vote!) -- next post has been delayed momentarily but should be out shortly. And to those people who are just arriving, welcome!
Restoration of the Great Ming: A Tianqi Timeline
- Thread starter RexSueciae
- Start date
A Storm Over China [Chapter 8]
Beijing
It was a terrible thing to be alive. That was what Nicolas Trigault knew in his heart, had known for most of his life. He had kept a firm lid on his sorrow, resolving to do all that he could. Tend to the living and bury the dead. And there were a great many dead.
Not all. The rebels had killed many of his friends, in the initial massacre. Old Longobardo had been slain.[1] Schall Von Bell was still alive, but on death’s door; the man had lost a great deal of blood, and lingered between two realms. There were still enough alive to keep the mission running. And there would be more young fellows dispatched, surely, to replenish their numbers.
Or maybe orders would come from Rome to pack it in and return to Europe. Or to focus more on Macau, the Philippines, or the communities of India. If such an instruction arrived, he would refuse. He had been sent to Beijing and he intended to stay there.
He remembered, some time ago, reading a long poem by John of the Cross which referenced the “dark night of the soul.” He did not think much of it at the time, nor did he care much for the author. John of the Cross was undoubtedly a very spiritual person, but he gave the impression of being slightly disturbed (though admittedly given his sufferings on earth, he had every right to be unbalanced). And Nicolas did not care much for the man’s admirers, who venerated his corpse in a way that would surely bring censure from Rome.[2]
But that was a wonderfully evocative phrase. The dark night of the soul. He could see, now, what it meant.
He pulled his robes tighter around himself. It was unseasonably cold. He couldn’t stay in the palace, or in the mission house, or in any of the neighborhoods he knew, and part of it was the traumatic events of the recent past, but part of it...well, at this point he was pretty much the most senior of his society in Beijing. Maybe, just maybe, he’d be appointed Superior General.
The thought did not cheer him. Even now, the rumbling of cannon could be heard from the north, and smaller guns. It seemed like the rebels were once more pushing towards the city, having abandoned their lurching about. Still no word from the princes, too. They could only be alive, if they had not yet fallen into the hands of the enemy.
The city was safe. The walls would hold. Even still, an army could cause any amount of destruction to the countryside; they might even subject Beijing to siege, although that sounded unlikely. The fact that the rebels were likely hungry (and more desperate) did not prevent prices from rising in the Beijing markets. Already, some of the poorer classes were growing restless for want of food.
So he’d put on some of his more unobtrusive robes, still of good quality but a little threadbare (and then a heavier coat on top of them, for he found himself more susceptible to cold these days). Then he’d slipped out to walk the streets anonymously. There were always thieves and ruffians, but that was the case with all cities, and he knew that his Lord would protect him as he walked about, anonymously distributing alms.
He’d wandered, for a time, pressing a coin into the hand of a beggar when he could, immersed in the ebb and flow of the crowd.
It was getting late. The wind was cold, and cut like a knife.
The emperor would fuss over him. If the emperor’s favorite Jesuit should catch a chill, what then? He didn’t want to go back to the palace just yet, though. The memories made him shake worse than the cold did. Brother Martino[3] had helped him with the funeral service. Poor fellow; he’d insisted on tending to the bodies himself.
The weather was quite cold, though, and he was no fool to openly defy the weather.
He must have been quite a sight, stumbling through the nearest lighted entryway; the building, which he took for a somewhat dilapidated inn, looked nearly deserted, although a small man by the hearth jumped up to usher him inside. “Come in!” the man said. “It is much too cold for an honorable gentleman like yourself to be out there. Sit, warm yourself for a while.”
Nicolas Trigault sat, and was warmed. He looked about. There was the palpable atmosphere of neglect in the air, though the building had evidently been a fine one in the past. He accepted a cup of tea from his benefactor. “Thank you,” he said politely. “Who might you be, and what is this place?”
The man bowed. “My name is Zengxiu,”[4] he said. “This house,” he waved his hand towards the slightly run-down surroundings, “was once the home of my honorable ancestor.” He bustled over to an alcove and unfolded a screen to reveal the painting of an ordinary-looking man, a bureaucrat in a court robe. “This was Yang Jisheng,” he said, “and this was where he lived, in the city. The Pine and Bamboo Hall. My father’s father was kin to him, and this building rightfully should stay in the family, but I have no children.”[5] The man carefully stowed away the painting. “Who knows what will happen, then. Perhaps another cousin will come in to maintain the place.”
Trigault thought for a moment. “Jisheng,” he said thoughtfully. “You mean, the man in that play, ‘The Phoenix’s Cry?’ That a past emperor-”
“The very one!” Zengxiu said. “A fine man he was. If men like him were alive today, we wouldn’t have this unpleasantness happening now.” As if on cue, the rumbling of cannonfire sounded again in the distance.
Men would be dying. The walls of Beijing would hold, surely…but he remembered stories from this country’s chronicles, of other times that armies from the north had taken the city. He had a sudden image, uncannily vivid, of the modern Beijing in flames, being sacked by an army. Trigault wrenched himself back to the here-and-now.
“This house,” he said, “it was important once, being the home of such a fine person. If it could be restored to its former glory…?”
“Ah, I don’t think of such things,” his host said. “What good is it to dream? But if I were not the juniormost descendant of a junior line, perhaps I’d have it refurbished as much as possible, and it would be a fine house indeed. Children would play in its courtyards, and in the wintertime people from the neighborhood could drink tea and be warmed here.”
Good enough of a cause for him. Trigault pressed his coin-purse into the man’s hands. “Here,” he said. “Make sure at least some of this gets into the hands of the poor. The rest…well, I’m sure any neighborhood could use another gathering-place. Thank you for the tea,” he said, rising to leave. “It was very kind of you, on a night like this.”
Nicolas Trigault bustled back to the palace with a spring in his step.
Footnotes
[1] IOTL he lived to a very old age and died in 1654. He has been less lucky ITTL.
[2] This is OTL. John of the Cross was not beatified until 1675, but popular veneration of his corpse had already begun shortly after his death. In 1647, the Pope realized that people were venerating the corpse of someone who wasn’t even a saint, and so he ordered the relics buried.
[3] Martino Martini, who has arrived in China on schedule and who is still resident in Beijing because Li Zicheng never sacked the city ITTL.
[4] 贈咻 -- not a historical character; I have inserted this one as a cameo to honor someone who did a service to this timeline.
[5] This is all OTL. The Beijing residence of Yang Jisheng was largely forgotten until the Qing dynasty rediscovered it. ITTL, it reemerges from obscurity a bit earlier.
It was a terrible thing to be alive. That was what Nicolas Trigault knew in his heart, had known for most of his life. He had kept a firm lid on his sorrow, resolving to do all that he could. Tend to the living and bury the dead. And there were a great many dead.
Not all. The rebels had killed many of his friends, in the initial massacre. Old Longobardo had been slain.[1] Schall Von Bell was still alive, but on death’s door; the man had lost a great deal of blood, and lingered between two realms. There were still enough alive to keep the mission running. And there would be more young fellows dispatched, surely, to replenish their numbers.
Or maybe orders would come from Rome to pack it in and return to Europe. Or to focus more on Macau, the Philippines, or the communities of India. If such an instruction arrived, he would refuse. He had been sent to Beijing and he intended to stay there.
He remembered, some time ago, reading a long poem by John of the Cross which referenced the “dark night of the soul.” He did not think much of it at the time, nor did he care much for the author. John of the Cross was undoubtedly a very spiritual person, but he gave the impression of being slightly disturbed (though admittedly given his sufferings on earth, he had every right to be unbalanced). And Nicolas did not care much for the man’s admirers, who venerated his corpse in a way that would surely bring censure from Rome.[2]
But that was a wonderfully evocative phrase. The dark night of the soul. He could see, now, what it meant.
He pulled his robes tighter around himself. It was unseasonably cold. He couldn’t stay in the palace, or in the mission house, or in any of the neighborhoods he knew, and part of it was the traumatic events of the recent past, but part of it...well, at this point he was pretty much the most senior of his society in Beijing. Maybe, just maybe, he’d be appointed Superior General.
The thought did not cheer him. Even now, the rumbling of cannon could be heard from the north, and smaller guns. It seemed like the rebels were once more pushing towards the city, having abandoned their lurching about. Still no word from the princes, too. They could only be alive, if they had not yet fallen into the hands of the enemy.
The city was safe. The walls would hold. Even still, an army could cause any amount of destruction to the countryside; they might even subject Beijing to siege, although that sounded unlikely. The fact that the rebels were likely hungry (and more desperate) did not prevent prices from rising in the Beijing markets. Already, some of the poorer classes were growing restless for want of food.
So he’d put on some of his more unobtrusive robes, still of good quality but a little threadbare (and then a heavier coat on top of them, for he found himself more susceptible to cold these days). Then he’d slipped out to walk the streets anonymously. There were always thieves and ruffians, but that was the case with all cities, and he knew that his Lord would protect him as he walked about, anonymously distributing alms.
He’d wandered, for a time, pressing a coin into the hand of a beggar when he could, immersed in the ebb and flow of the crowd.
It was getting late. The wind was cold, and cut like a knife.
The emperor would fuss over him. If the emperor’s favorite Jesuit should catch a chill, what then? He didn’t want to go back to the palace just yet, though. The memories made him shake worse than the cold did. Brother Martino[3] had helped him with the funeral service. Poor fellow; he’d insisted on tending to the bodies himself.
The weather was quite cold, though, and he was no fool to openly defy the weather.
He must have been quite a sight, stumbling through the nearest lighted entryway; the building, which he took for a somewhat dilapidated inn, looked nearly deserted, although a small man by the hearth jumped up to usher him inside. “Come in!” the man said. “It is much too cold for an honorable gentleman like yourself to be out there. Sit, warm yourself for a while.”
Nicolas Trigault sat, and was warmed. He looked about. There was the palpable atmosphere of neglect in the air, though the building had evidently been a fine one in the past. He accepted a cup of tea from his benefactor. “Thank you,” he said politely. “Who might you be, and what is this place?”
The man bowed. “My name is Zengxiu,”[4] he said. “This house,” he waved his hand towards the slightly run-down surroundings, “was once the home of my honorable ancestor.” He bustled over to an alcove and unfolded a screen to reveal the painting of an ordinary-looking man, a bureaucrat in a court robe. “This was Yang Jisheng,” he said, “and this was where he lived, in the city. The Pine and Bamboo Hall. My father’s father was kin to him, and this building rightfully should stay in the family, but I have no children.”[5] The man carefully stowed away the painting. “Who knows what will happen, then. Perhaps another cousin will come in to maintain the place.”
Trigault thought for a moment. “Jisheng,” he said thoughtfully. “You mean, the man in that play, ‘The Phoenix’s Cry?’ That a past emperor-”
“The very one!” Zengxiu said. “A fine man he was. If men like him were alive today, we wouldn’t have this unpleasantness happening now.” As if on cue, the rumbling of cannonfire sounded again in the distance.
Men would be dying. The walls of Beijing would hold, surely…but he remembered stories from this country’s chronicles, of other times that armies from the north had taken the city. He had a sudden image, uncannily vivid, of the modern Beijing in flames, being sacked by an army. Trigault wrenched himself back to the here-and-now.
“This house,” he said, “it was important once, being the home of such a fine person. If it could be restored to its former glory…?”
“Ah, I don’t think of such things,” his host said. “What good is it to dream? But if I were not the juniormost descendant of a junior line, perhaps I’d have it refurbished as much as possible, and it would be a fine house indeed. Children would play in its courtyards, and in the wintertime people from the neighborhood could drink tea and be warmed here.”
Good enough of a cause for him. Trigault pressed his coin-purse into the man’s hands. “Here,” he said. “Make sure at least some of this gets into the hands of the poor. The rest…well, I’m sure any neighborhood could use another gathering-place. Thank you for the tea,” he said, rising to leave. “It was very kind of you, on a night like this.”
Nicolas Trigault bustled back to the palace with a spring in his step.
Footnotes
[1] IOTL he lived to a very old age and died in 1654. He has been less lucky ITTL.
[2] This is OTL. John of the Cross was not beatified until 1675, but popular veneration of his corpse had already begun shortly after his death. In 1647, the Pope realized that people were venerating the corpse of someone who wasn’t even a saint, and so he ordered the relics buried.
[3] Martino Martini, who has arrived in China on schedule and who is still resident in Beijing because Li Zicheng never sacked the city ITTL.
[4] 贈咻 -- not a historical character; I have inserted this one as a cameo to honor someone who did a service to this timeline.
[5] This is all OTL. The Beijing residence of Yang Jisheng was largely forgotten until the Qing dynasty rediscovered it. ITTL, it reemerges from obscurity a bit earlier.
Above all the things I look for in a timeline, what I value most is an understanding that history is made up of people- with doubts and certainties and complexities and failings and greatness.
This update's got all of that in spades. Well done.
This update's got all of that in spades. Well done.
The thing I love about this timeline is how excellent a job you do of putting the events of this timeline in historical context. I feel sometimes that authors jump right into the alt-hist, with little discussion on how things are changing. While this may be fairly obvious for certain events, I don't think it is for others.
While obviously I know avoiding the Ming-Qing transition is a major shift in world event, my knowledge of Chinese history is cursory at best and limited to only the most broad strokes of which Dynasty followed which. But you have made this timeline easy and enjoyable for me, as an un-informed reader, to follow.
I also love that I feel I've learned about 17th century Chinese society reading your timeline. That is, I think, a hallmark of good AH; it can teach the reader real history while exploring the counter-factual.
While obviously I know avoiding the Ming-Qing transition is a major shift in world event, my knowledge of Chinese history is cursory at best and limited to only the most broad strokes of which Dynasty followed which. But you have made this timeline easy and enjoyable for me, as an un-informed reader, to follow.
I also love that I feel I've learned about 17th century Chinese society reading your timeline. That is, I think, a hallmark of good AH; it can teach the reader real history while exploring the counter-factual.
So it turns out writing dialogue is a lot harder than writing chronicled history.
My thanks to everyone for their patience, and for their kind thoughts; I will genuinely attempt to update more punctually (though work obligations may occasionally intervene). I'm glad to be teaching (actual) history through this timeline, and I hope to continue doing so for a long time to come!
My thanks to everyone for their patience, and for their kind thoughts; I will genuinely attempt to update more punctually (though work obligations may occasionally intervene). I'm glad to be teaching (actual) history through this timeline, and I hope to continue doing so for a long time to come!
A Storm Over China [Chapter 9]
Imperial Palace Complex, Beijing
The emperor fiddled with the hem of his robe. He’d made the snap decision to raise up Zheng Chenggong as his primary military advisor, for the moment, which had its benefits and drawbacks. Maybe the elder Zheng would have been a steadier hand. But then again, the admiral had offended quite a lot of the bureaucracy, while his son was a more cultured young man.
Still a warlike fellow, which was for the best, if he was to rule Dongshan someday. And always accompanied by some barbarian mercenary. Today the young man’s bodyguard was a silent Spaniard, named Javier something-or-other, who had apparently been living in the former Spanish outpost and had stuck around under the Portuguese.[1]
The emperor snorted to himself. He still couldn’t remember half the names of the provincial capitals, but he remembered a thing or two about that little island and the adventures of his friends. When he was a child, Master Sun had been most vexed with him, and the slow progress he’d made at his lessons! Facts and figures had mostly slipped from his attention and vanished, but a chance encounter with one of the palace artisans had given him a lifelong love of woodworking. It was something his courtiers had learnt to tolerate; he gave his attention to those things which held his interest.
There would have to be something done to regularize Dongshan, after the fighting was done. He’d have to ask some of the palace historians what was previously done.
The thought brought a brief smile. He remembered a conversation he’d had with Minister Zhou the other night; his head of Revenue was quietly frustrated that a lot of draft plans for regularizing the porcelain markets were being delayed. The fact that there was a hostile army in the north, well, that was bad, but his ideas about porcelain production -- there was merit in what he said. Apparently there was a lot of work that had to be done, but also money to be made.
Assuming everybody survived the days to come.
He and the younger Zheng were reviewing a ragged band of men that were technically fit to be called soldiers. For the city’s poor, anticipating a siege, it was natural enough that the more able-bodied would volunteer. He wondered how well they’d do if they were actually sent to battle, though.
Every so often, more civilians would come streaming in, fleeing in advance of the mutinous traitors in the north who surrounded the false emperor. Some of the soldiers from that group were defecting, apparently. Not all at once; not all had the nerve to do that. And it didn’t help matters that he, himself, was not exactly flush with manpower.
After the chaos of the early days, there had been several small pitched battles, to decidedly mixed success. On the one hand, his enemy could ill-afford to replace losses. On the other hand, he couldn’t let his (in many cases second-tier) commanders lose too often, either. It would look bad, might even inspire people to start defecting the other way.
The imperial princes had been less than helpful, too. True, he’d learnt from his spies that they were probably not supporting the usurper...yet. They knew which way was up. But they weren’t exactly hurrying to his aid, either, no matter how they assured him via official channels that they definitely had nothing to do with the usurper Prince of Fu.
It is like being emperor of air, he thought savagely. Year by year, it seemed like another bit chipped away from the innocence he had as a child. Now he could understand why his grandfather had withdrawn from his duties, why some of his other ancestors had been similarly neglectful, leaving the business of state to eunuchs.
He was emperor as long as other people thought that what he said was right. And once one person was bold enough to raise himself against the throne...
Once this is done, we shall all have work to do.
If everything went well. If not -- the wry thought crossed his mind that he could flee to the protection of the Zheng family on Dongshan. But the thought of an emperor living on Dongshan was absurd.[2]
As he and the younger Zheng concluded their business, a messenger ran up to them. The mercenary called Javier intercepted the man, listened to his words, then went to confer with his master Zheng, who was the one to eventually approach the emperor.
“Your majesty,” he said, “our scouts report that the usurper’s army is on the move. They will be at the outskirts of the city within the week. I believe they intend to offer battle once more...”
Footnotes
[1] Just like Zengxiu, from the previous chapter, this is another cameo to honor an individual who did a kind favor to this timeline.
[2] Yes, that was a joke about the OTL exploits of Koxinga and his continued support for the Ming dynasty. Although the Zheng family was very much in it for themselves; providing shelter for a surviving imperial prince granted them legitimacy, and may have been for sincere reasons, but obviously it was the Zheng family calling the shots around what was called Tungning IOTL.
The emperor fiddled with the hem of his robe. He’d made the snap decision to raise up Zheng Chenggong as his primary military advisor, for the moment, which had its benefits and drawbacks. Maybe the elder Zheng would have been a steadier hand. But then again, the admiral had offended quite a lot of the bureaucracy, while his son was a more cultured young man.
Still a warlike fellow, which was for the best, if he was to rule Dongshan someday. And always accompanied by some barbarian mercenary. Today the young man’s bodyguard was a silent Spaniard, named Javier something-or-other, who had apparently been living in the former Spanish outpost and had stuck around under the Portuguese.[1]
The emperor snorted to himself. He still couldn’t remember half the names of the provincial capitals, but he remembered a thing or two about that little island and the adventures of his friends. When he was a child, Master Sun had been most vexed with him, and the slow progress he’d made at his lessons! Facts and figures had mostly slipped from his attention and vanished, but a chance encounter with one of the palace artisans had given him a lifelong love of woodworking. It was something his courtiers had learnt to tolerate; he gave his attention to those things which held his interest.
There would have to be something done to regularize Dongshan, after the fighting was done. He’d have to ask some of the palace historians what was previously done.
The thought brought a brief smile. He remembered a conversation he’d had with Minister Zhou the other night; his head of Revenue was quietly frustrated that a lot of draft plans for regularizing the porcelain markets were being delayed. The fact that there was a hostile army in the north, well, that was bad, but his ideas about porcelain production -- there was merit in what he said. Apparently there was a lot of work that had to be done, but also money to be made.
Assuming everybody survived the days to come.
He and the younger Zheng were reviewing a ragged band of men that were technically fit to be called soldiers. For the city’s poor, anticipating a siege, it was natural enough that the more able-bodied would volunteer. He wondered how well they’d do if they were actually sent to battle, though.
Every so often, more civilians would come streaming in, fleeing in advance of the mutinous traitors in the north who surrounded the false emperor. Some of the soldiers from that group were defecting, apparently. Not all at once; not all had the nerve to do that. And it didn’t help matters that he, himself, was not exactly flush with manpower.
After the chaos of the early days, there had been several small pitched battles, to decidedly mixed success. On the one hand, his enemy could ill-afford to replace losses. On the other hand, he couldn’t let his (in many cases second-tier) commanders lose too often, either. It would look bad, might even inspire people to start defecting the other way.
The imperial princes had been less than helpful, too. True, he’d learnt from his spies that they were probably not supporting the usurper...yet. They knew which way was up. But they weren’t exactly hurrying to his aid, either, no matter how they assured him via official channels that they definitely had nothing to do with the usurper Prince of Fu.
It is like being emperor of air, he thought savagely. Year by year, it seemed like another bit chipped away from the innocence he had as a child. Now he could understand why his grandfather had withdrawn from his duties, why some of his other ancestors had been similarly neglectful, leaving the business of state to eunuchs.
He was emperor as long as other people thought that what he said was right. And once one person was bold enough to raise himself against the throne...
Once this is done, we shall all have work to do.
If everything went well. If not -- the wry thought crossed his mind that he could flee to the protection of the Zheng family on Dongshan. But the thought of an emperor living on Dongshan was absurd.[2]
As he and the younger Zheng concluded their business, a messenger ran up to them. The mercenary called Javier intercepted the man, listened to his words, then went to confer with his master Zheng, who was the one to eventually approach the emperor.
“Your majesty,” he said, “our scouts report that the usurper’s army is on the move. They will be at the outskirts of the city within the week. I believe they intend to offer battle once more...”
Footnotes
[1] Just like Zengxiu, from the previous chapter, this is another cameo to honor an individual who did a kind favor to this timeline.
[2] Yes, that was a joke about the OTL exploits of Koxinga and his continued support for the Ming dynasty. Although the Zheng family was very much in it for themselves; providing shelter for a surviving imperial prince granted them legitimacy, and may have been for sincere reasons, but obviously it was the Zheng family calling the shots around what was called Tungning IOTL.
Hey all, I've recently had a spot of bad luck in that my laptop abruptly gave up the ghost. It has ceased to be; it is an ex-laptop. Fortunately, all my writing is in Google Docs so there's nothing lost. Just wanted to let people know!
I've known cases in which the work was lost.
Good thing it's safe in this case.
A Storm Over China [Chapter 10]
On the road
It was good to be on a horse again. With every mile, the years fell away from him; this was where he belonged. He even thought he remembered the little towns, the lands he’d passed as he’d come this way, years ago. And then there were things that he’d forgotten in his rose-tinted nostalgia. Horses were fine animals, but keeping them fed was a mighty chore, and transporting them by river barge was a bellyache.
Daišan didn’t let it bother him. They were making decent time. The usurper’s coin spent as good as any other, though he’d had to reach into his own purse (metaphorically speaking) to ease things along. If all went well, he would be richly rewarded, of course. If things went poorly then he’d have bigger problems.
And it helped that this time he didn’t have nearly as many horses with him. True, the scions of the Aisin Gioro were all competent enough on horses, and his retainers and their sons could ride like the very gods of war. But his forces included plenty of locals, and in a generation or so who knew how they’d look? Something mingled together and new. And it wasn’t as if his people were all horsemen by nature. His ancestors were a trifle more sedentary than the horse-mad khans of the far steppes.
They came north, faster as his boys got used to traveling. They were all his boys, though at this point his army was a new kind of thing. The veterans of the Plain Red Banner were augmented now with other recruits. The soldiers who had come south with Hong Chengchou, soldiers who’d been recruited in the vicinity of Sichuan.
And, increasingly, they were joined by more. Not just disorganized, starving peasants who would carry a spear, or clean clothes, or whatever else was needed as a pleasant alternative to starvation. Actual organized soldiers, led by officers.
He remembered meeting with some local potentate, a distant descendant of some imperial prince, who had been welcoming enough but who had dithered terribly over what to do. He was loyal to his august sovereign, the fellow had explained, but there was so much unrest in the area, and shedding blood was so terrible, and wasn’t it true that the rebel was another cousin? That was deeply, deeply unfortunate, we are of course loyal subjects of the emperor, it’s just...
Excuses and excuses. Daišan had half a mind to wallop the idiot, but that might have consequences. Brawling with someone who was technically a prince was a bad idea. So was calling him an idiot to his face. He didn’t care to waste his breath on someone who wasn’t worth it. He just crossed his arms and silently regarded the fellow with his talking-to-idiots face. A touch of skepticism mixed with a glowering impatience.
It worked. The man had been unnerved by his silence and had filled it with his rambling, more excuses, and at last the offer of assigning some (some!) of the local garrisons to accompany him north to Beijing. Plus guides to lead the way to the next province. Plus supplies and provisions of all sorts. And so on, and so forth.
It was remarkable what you could get out of people by just letting them talk themselves into it.
And once that was done, the rest came easier. After so many of your colleagues had declared for the true emperor, would you want to be the first to outright defy him? Of course not. Easier to just go along with everything.
They passed through cities and towns, and the wary common folk seemed to approve of them. People cheered their passage. He’d feared more unrest than he was seeing; it took him a while to realize that just as he remembered a little of the first time he’d passed this way, heading south, so too did some people remember him.
Being respectful to people, it turned out, meant that they respected you in turn. What a concept.
It was at the home of some village headman, drinking the weakest tea he’d ever tasted, that he got the first real updates on what was happening.
“It’s getting bad, up there,” the man said, scratching out a crude sketch in the dirt. The lines vaguely resembled the layout of Beijing. “My wife’s cousin was in the city to deliver a memorial from our magistrate, and he barely got out before the armies started going at it again.”
Daišan listened as the man explained what he’d heard of the usurper’s forces. Hmm. The city’s walls were in no danger, surely. Not enough men to force an entrance, save by some clever stratagem, and Daišan knew that clever stratagems were mostly campfire tales. Little boys imagined that they would figure out some trick to win a battle, like they imagined the great khans of yesteryear had done it. Experienced leaders learnt that nine-tenths of the trouble was simply getting your men from here to there in a single mass, without losing too many to desertion or fatigue. Once you had your army in place, then you could start thinking about tactics.
He did a bit of mental math about the size of the city’s population and the amount of, say, rice and millet that could be easily stored. Subtract that which would be regularly eaten, and accounting for how much could be brought in from the countryside, but divide that by half since foraging operations would be sorely tested with the rebel’s forces lurking about...
It looked like they needed to travel quickly indeed.
They traveled all that day and the next until finally, in the distance, they heard the sound of guns. It made the fine hairs of Daišan’s arms stand on end. They were going back into the thick of it, no doubt. He remembered his youth, the raids on the emperor’s fortresses, his brave and daring father. Funny, the way life went. Not for the first time, he shook his head ruefully at the thought.
Time to prove what kind of men they were.
There wasn’t much space to have them drawn up for him to do a speech, but they made the best of it, and the officers would relay his words if necessary. On his horse, he thought he still cut a martial figure.
“My boys!” They answered him with a cheer. “Some of you rode with me when we hunted the Yellow Tiger. That was a fine hunt. Now we hunt another, just like him. A monster out of myth, who dared to raise his head against our emperor.”
There were more cheers at that. He might be old, but he was still able to pitch his voice to carry over a crowd.
“You and I are here because it is our duty,” he said. “Because it is correct. But most importantly, my boys, we are here because we are the equal of any body of men in this empire! None better! We will personally, every one of us, send the gutless rebels screaming back to the caves where they spawned!”
The roar that answered him was one of jubilation.
“To immortality!” he shouted. “We ride!”
It was good to be on a horse again. With every mile, the years fell away from him; this was where he belonged. He even thought he remembered the little towns, the lands he’d passed as he’d come this way, years ago. And then there were things that he’d forgotten in his rose-tinted nostalgia. Horses were fine animals, but keeping them fed was a mighty chore, and transporting them by river barge was a bellyache.
Daišan didn’t let it bother him. They were making decent time. The usurper’s coin spent as good as any other, though he’d had to reach into his own purse (metaphorically speaking) to ease things along. If all went well, he would be richly rewarded, of course. If things went poorly then he’d have bigger problems.
And it helped that this time he didn’t have nearly as many horses with him. True, the scions of the Aisin Gioro were all competent enough on horses, and his retainers and their sons could ride like the very gods of war. But his forces included plenty of locals, and in a generation or so who knew how they’d look? Something mingled together and new. And it wasn’t as if his people were all horsemen by nature. His ancestors were a trifle more sedentary than the horse-mad khans of the far steppes.
They came north, faster as his boys got used to traveling. They were all his boys, though at this point his army was a new kind of thing. The veterans of the Plain Red Banner were augmented now with other recruits. The soldiers who had come south with Hong Chengchou, soldiers who’d been recruited in the vicinity of Sichuan.
And, increasingly, they were joined by more. Not just disorganized, starving peasants who would carry a spear, or clean clothes, or whatever else was needed as a pleasant alternative to starvation. Actual organized soldiers, led by officers.
He remembered meeting with some local potentate, a distant descendant of some imperial prince, who had been welcoming enough but who had dithered terribly over what to do. He was loyal to his august sovereign, the fellow had explained, but there was so much unrest in the area, and shedding blood was so terrible, and wasn’t it true that the rebel was another cousin? That was deeply, deeply unfortunate, we are of course loyal subjects of the emperor, it’s just...
Excuses and excuses. Daišan had half a mind to wallop the idiot, but that might have consequences. Brawling with someone who was technically a prince was a bad idea. So was calling him an idiot to his face. He didn’t care to waste his breath on someone who wasn’t worth it. He just crossed his arms and silently regarded the fellow with his talking-to-idiots face. A touch of skepticism mixed with a glowering impatience.
It worked. The man had been unnerved by his silence and had filled it with his rambling, more excuses, and at last the offer of assigning some (some!) of the local garrisons to accompany him north to Beijing. Plus guides to lead the way to the next province. Plus supplies and provisions of all sorts. And so on, and so forth.
It was remarkable what you could get out of people by just letting them talk themselves into it.
And once that was done, the rest came easier. After so many of your colleagues had declared for the true emperor, would you want to be the first to outright defy him? Of course not. Easier to just go along with everything.
They passed through cities and towns, and the wary common folk seemed to approve of them. People cheered their passage. He’d feared more unrest than he was seeing; it took him a while to realize that just as he remembered a little of the first time he’d passed this way, heading south, so too did some people remember him.
Being respectful to people, it turned out, meant that they respected you in turn. What a concept.
It was at the home of some village headman, drinking the weakest tea he’d ever tasted, that he got the first real updates on what was happening.
“It’s getting bad, up there,” the man said, scratching out a crude sketch in the dirt. The lines vaguely resembled the layout of Beijing. “My wife’s cousin was in the city to deliver a memorial from our magistrate, and he barely got out before the armies started going at it again.”
Daišan listened as the man explained what he’d heard of the usurper’s forces. Hmm. The city’s walls were in no danger, surely. Not enough men to force an entrance, save by some clever stratagem, and Daišan knew that clever stratagems were mostly campfire tales. Little boys imagined that they would figure out some trick to win a battle, like they imagined the great khans of yesteryear had done it. Experienced leaders learnt that nine-tenths of the trouble was simply getting your men from here to there in a single mass, without losing too many to desertion or fatigue. Once you had your army in place, then you could start thinking about tactics.
He did a bit of mental math about the size of the city’s population and the amount of, say, rice and millet that could be easily stored. Subtract that which would be regularly eaten, and accounting for how much could be brought in from the countryside, but divide that by half since foraging operations would be sorely tested with the rebel’s forces lurking about...
It looked like they needed to travel quickly indeed.
They traveled all that day and the next until finally, in the distance, they heard the sound of guns. It made the fine hairs of Daišan’s arms stand on end. They were going back into the thick of it, no doubt. He remembered his youth, the raids on the emperor’s fortresses, his brave and daring father. Funny, the way life went. Not for the first time, he shook his head ruefully at the thought.
Time to prove what kind of men they were.
There wasn’t much space to have them drawn up for him to do a speech, but they made the best of it, and the officers would relay his words if necessary. On his horse, he thought he still cut a martial figure.
“My boys!” They answered him with a cheer. “Some of you rode with me when we hunted the Yellow Tiger. That was a fine hunt. Now we hunt another, just like him. A monster out of myth, who dared to raise his head against our emperor.”
There were more cheers at that. He might be old, but he was still able to pitch his voice to carry over a crowd.
“You and I are here because it is our duty,” he said. “Because it is correct. But most importantly, my boys, we are here because we are the equal of any body of men in this empire! None better! We will personally, every one of us, send the gutless rebels screaming back to the caves where they spawned!”
The roar that answered him was one of jubilation.
“To immortality!” he shouted. “We ride!”
Seconded! Exciting times.
I love the irony that ITTL, the Manchus (or at least a group of them) will be the Ming’s saviours.
The irony helped me decide on this path, just a little. And I figured I ought to bring back one of the figures I'd highlighted earlier -- so, here we are!
>arrive
>lets the other continuously ramble
>refuses to elaborate anything himself
>leaves with a few local troops.
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Ramontxo
Donor
Sorry for the (very) late reply, but Innocent X famous answer when he first see the picture was "Tropo vero" (too true). I am fast reading this excellent TL. Thanks a lot for your work
Shi Kefa, up-and-coming bureaucrat in the Ministry of Works
In Rome, Pope Urban VIII dies. He leaves behind him a legacy that touches most of Europe and occasionally lands farther afield -- even China. An eloquent man, the author of some decent hymns, the promulgator of papal bulls condemning such sins as slavery and the use of tobacco. He had proven himself a friend of the Jesuits (who are grateful to him), confirming the legitimacy of their missions in the New World and in China. He reigned as both vicar of Christ and as a secular prince, seizing the Duchy of Castro by force of arms. He canonized several saints and created more than seventy cardinals, including at least four of his own blood relatives.
And now he’s dead. He is succeeded by one of the cardinals he’d created, Giovanni Battista Pamphili, who takes the name Innocent X.[1]
The new pope inherits a papacy greatly depleted of funds -- wars are expensive -- which he tries to recoup in part by seizing properties owned by the late pope’s relatives. (He’s a little upset with them. You see, apart from the usual politicking, some years ago the late pope’s brother had commissioned a painting where the Archangel Michael is trampling a Satan who greatly resembles Cardinal Pamphili, an act viewed as gravely insulting and for which Innocent X has never quite forgiven them.[2])
Pope Innocent X is also a little bemused by one action recorded in the papal records -- among the many cardinals appointed by his predecessor, several had been created in pectore, which is to say secretly, in the custom of the church -- and while Urban VIII had eventually published most of their names, he died without revealing the name of the last one (although there are some reports that he attempted to do so on his deathbed). This isn’t the first time that such a thing has occurred, but it’s still odd.[3] The new pope shrugs and gets on with his work.
Now let’s swing back to our usual stomping-grounds. Injo of Joseon, who had reigned since a 1623 palace coup put him in power, dies after a sudden illness. He is succeeded by his eldest son, the Crown Prince Sohyeon.
Some whisper about skullduggery afoot. The late king had been in apparent good health right before he died, and naturally there are rumors of poison. Adding to the mystery, his heir Sohyeon had evidently been gravely ill but had recovered. Historians debate the exact sequence of events which had taken place. The consensus view, in line with that expressed by the Ming chronicler Zhong Hecao, is that both individuals fell ill in close succession due to a contagious disease or inadvertent contamination. This “official” record of events was likely adapted verbatim from the more comprehensive Annals of the Joseon Dynasty. However, revisionist historians have posited that either both men were poisoned by an outside force, or that Injo (for uncertain reasons) had attempted filicide, and was subsequently assassinated by some agent loyal to Sohyeon. These interpretations have inspired numerous fictional works but, truthfully, the full story may never be told. Maybe there was some kind of conspiracy in the Joseon court, but its participants, if any, have yet to be identified.
So who is the newest king of Joseon? He is often compared to his father, who was regarded as a reliable pro-Ming figure, although obviously the nobles of Joseon are positively inclined towards their large, powerful neighbor in general. That said, some historians criticize Injo as a vacillating, ineffective personality who “got lucky” by happening to be king at a time when first the Ming and later the Northern Yuan flexed their might in destroying his most immediate geopolitical foe, the Later Jin.[4] In contrast, his son is regarded as more thoughtful, open-minded, and decisive -- at least, that’s what his supporters hope.
The former Crown Prince assumes the temple name of Hyojong upon his accession. His foreign wife, Erdani, gives birth to the couple’s first child, Yi Seok-rin, a healthy boy who is granted the title of Crown Prince Gyeongwan.[5]
The Joseon court is very much continuing their usual polite relations with their nominal suzerain (the Empire of the Great Ming) but are also interested in cooperation with the Northern Yuan -- the king loves his wife -- so things might get interesting.
Shifting our attention to Dongshan, the island is rocked by the publication of -- no, it’s not an economics treatise from Di Yimin. It’s a rambling religious text of uncertain authorship but often attributed to Amakusa Shirō a.k.a. Geronimo (sometimes described in European sources as “Geronimo Amakusa”), the charismatic Japanese Christian and figurehead of an abortive rebellion, who has resided on Dongshan since 1638 when he and his followers were evacuated by Admiral Zheng’s fleet.[6]
The document is not a work of great literature by any standard. Sometimes called the Pearl of Great Price (after the Biblical passage which it extensively references), the book recounts a series of surreal (and sometimes erotic) images personally revealed to Geronimo over the course of his life, brought to him by an Angel of the Lord, because he has been blessed with a direct line of communication with the Christian divinity, and he’s been ordered to share his message with everyone in the empire, because the Lord has a special interest in China, obviously. The Pearl is easy enough to read, and while its authorship may be questionable it is swiftly adopted and reprinted by Geronimo’s religiously heterodox followers.
Responses are mixed. These people are a dedicated bunch who are already convinced that their leader works miracles, leading to some curiosity from their neighbors. Actual Christians in China are less curious and more dismissive -- Nicolas Trigault writes some disapproving words back to Rome reporting on the actions of “Balaam over the sea” which is probably a reference to Geronimo and the allegedly licentious ways of his followers. Obviously, there is no such thing as a (Catholic) Chinese Inquisition. Geronimo’s followers might be fined by local magistrates for disturbing the peace, but they won’t be burnt at the stake -- in China, at least. In the Philippines and Macau, the authorities there would probably disapprove. Admiral Zheng in Dongshan doesn’t care much, since Geronimo’s followers are among the foremost of the settlers willing to take up residence in the backcountry, and he needs all the people he can get -- there’s rumblings of war with the Dutch, and also he’s been having some trouble with the indigenous population. But we’ll get to that later.
Oh, yes, and Geronimo’s getting attention outside of his usual circles. The poet Wang Wei mocks him as the “leader of little fishes” which swim about in the sea, since that is where pearls can be found -- it’s an idea which swiftly finds approval among Geronimo’s actual followers, who start calling themselves the Fishermen (for Biblical reasons). Although the Fishermen by and large aren’t actually fishermen, who have more interesting gods. Still, awareness is starting to spread. The small Christian community, both foreigners like the Jesuits and local converts, think that Geronimo is one weird guy. Politically conservative members of the imperial court grumble that things weren’t like this back in the good old days.
Speaking of the imperial court, Dong Kewei, at the Ministry of Works, is reviewing a report drafted by his deputy Shi Kefa.[7] China’s canals are more or less functional, thanks to the Ministry being mostly competent (also because Minister Dong, as the emperor’s unofficial spymaster, wields a lot of soft power that’s technically outside of his legal remit, so his expenditures get approved very quickly). But canals aren’t the only waterways in China. There are rivers, some of which are quite large.
Shi Kefa writes that he had by chance heard of the Ming ancestral tombs which the Hongwu Emperor had built along the banks of the Hongze Lake. These are not technically imperial tombs -- the emperors themselves are interred elsewhere -- but the Hongwu Emperor was really big into lavish building projects to honor his ancestors.[8] The mortuary complex near Hongze Lake contains the remains of the Hongwu Emperor’s grandfather and empty tombs for more distant ancestors. It is perhaps less important than other Ming imperial mausoleums, but it’s still important.
It is also in danger. Shi Kefa warns that the tomb is built perilously close to the shores of the lake. This was done for reasons of feng shui, which is well and good, but the people who built the place didn’t take many precautions to prevent flooding. And Hongze Lake is fed by the river Huai. Now, the Huai River, like most of China’s large, silt-heavy rivers that flow from west to east, is prone to flooding. It’d only take a really bad season, or a silt clog somewhere down the line, before something catastrophic happened. So, since Shi Kefa is looking for a new project (and because he wants to make his name, since his boss is gonna retire someday and he wants to be Minister of Works when that happens), he suggests a project to either redirect the flow of the Huai or, if that is impractical, to construct large dikes or other earthworks to protect the ancestral tombs, just in case. Minister Dong is a little skeptical of his subordinate’s analysis, but he appreciates the effort, and he figures that it’ll create employment for the locals, so he signs off on the second plan to build dikes.[9]
There’s bloodletting elsewhere in the world -- the Portuguese and Spanish are still killing each other -- but for China, in the here and now, these are peaceful days.
Footnotes
[1] All this is OTL thus far. I can’t think of anything that would have changed any of this -- Ming influence has resulted in Lorenzo Ruiz and Francesc de Borja being canonized ahead of schedule but wouldn’t have shifted the balance of power in the College of Cardinals, so the 1644 conclave proceeds as normal. Pope Innocent X is probably best-known as the guy in a truly excellent painting by Diego Velasquez, and then in some more disturbing paintings by Francis Bacon.
[2] This happened IOTL.
[3] Pope Pius IV created a cardinal in pectore at the consistory of 1561 and failed to publish the name before death, the only earlier example of this kind of mishap that I can find. For more information on the practice of in pectore, I recommend Wikipedia. You can speculate as to the identity of Urban VIII’s secret cardinal -- who is not listed as one of Urban VIII’s OTL cardinals -- and why I have mentioned this seemingly minor incident in my timeline.
[4] This is pretty much the OTL consensus on Injo, except he had to submit to the Qing and also IOTL was probably successful in murdering his son. ITTL he has his detractors but Joseon did well under his reign, so he comes off a little better.
[5] The temple name is the same as the one his brother took upon ascending the throne IOTL -- and, for that matter, the name / title that he gives his son is the same as one of his OTL children. What can I say? I’m lazy.
As an aside, many East Asian royal figures of this time period are commonly described by their temple names -- some Chinese dynasties are described this way by convention, although for Ming emperors the custom is to describe them with their era names. So, for example, our guy the Tianqi Emperor is so called because his era was that of a “heavenly opening;” he was given the name Zhu Youjiao at birth and received the temple name Xizong. Don’t worry about it too much. I try to be consistent, at least, with how I refer to people, and if I make a goof then that’s on me.
[6] Remember him? The Shimabara Rebellion may have fizzled out ITTL but its legacy lives on.
[7] For a review of who’s who in the bureaucracy, refer to Dramatis Personae [1638] and the updated list of top officials in 1641.
[8] This was mentioned previously in 1634. The tombs mentioned previously in Fengyang are often called Huangling while the ones mentioned in this update near Hongze Lake are often called Zuling.
[9] Shi Kefa has good instincts. IOTL nobody paid much attention to the tombs, partly because the Ming dynasty was collapsing and the Qing dynasty was still figuring stuff out. Consequently in 1680 when the Yellow River suddenly changed course and started flowing into the Huai, massive amounts of water entered Hongze Lake and completely submerged the Zuling tombs. They were not seen again for approximately three hundred years.