Chapter 1099 - Court Politics
Beyond the systemic corruption and inefficiency, simply maintaining the canal transport under normal conditions was extraordinarily difficult, consuming vast quantities of labor and resources. Throughout successive dynasties, aside from "river management," the greatest expenditure on water infrastructure was keeping the Grand Canal navigable. From south to north, the canal stretched over two thousand li, requiring countless locks and reservoirs along its course, with man-made channels dug to regulate water levels and flow. The route was particularly vulnerable after entering Shandong, where it was subject to the ever-shifting Yellow River. Every winter, the waterway north of the Huai River froze solid, halting boat traffic and stranding the tribute fleet in enforced idleness.
Maintaining canal infrastructure devoured enormous labor and resources, and ensuring transport capacity demanded further expenditure still. The vast corps of tribute transport soldiers and their vessels represented yet another massive outlay. The sheer difficulty and expense of the entire tribute system rendered it economically unjustifiable—a pure product of political necessity.
Zhu Yuanzhang's decision to establish the Ming capital at Nanjing rather than Beijing surely reflected, in part, considerations of "proximity to grain supply"—remaining near the empire's fiscal base to reduce transport costs.
Zhao Yingong attacked Ming tribute transport from both economic and systemic angles. His facts were irrefutable, his arguments sound, amplified by the research, summaries, and critiques of twentieth and twenty-first century Chinese and foreign historians. Zhang Pu could not help but be impressed.
Zhang Pu had long recognized the tribute system's flaws—otherwise he would never have proposed diverting Taicang's tribute grain to local military provisions. But he had never systematically studied the issue. Listening now to Zhao Yingong's methodical exposition, he was inwardly astonished. This Master Zhao might be woefully ignorant of the Four Books and Five Classics, the canons and histories, yet his mind contained profound strategic insight. When it came to "statecraft and practical application," few around him could match this peculiar scholar.
The more he listened, the more impressed he became. Only when Zhao Yingong finished did Zhang Pu slowly pronounce: "Sir, you are a man of great talent."
"I dare not claim such—merely some personal observations." Zhao Yingong felt thoroughly exhilarated. The man before him was no ordinary figure but the illustrious Zhang Pu! To receive praise of "great talent" from such a luminary was rather intoxicating.
"Then in your view, if the tribute system's corruption is the root cause, what solution exists for the people's suffering?"
Zhao Yingong's long-contemplated thesis emerged at once.
"Nothing less than abolishing the canal and adopting the sea!" he declared. "The tribute system's accumulated abuses run too deep. Only by starting afresh can it be reformed."
The statement carried tremendous weight. Since the Sui dynasty had carved the Grand Canal and the Tang had made the southeast the empire's fiscal base, tribute transport had become the lifeline sustaining dynastic survival. Every autumn, the ceaseless northward flow of grain determined a dynasty's very life or death.
Zhang Pu was a man of vast learning. He knew that abolishing canal for sea was not an original proposal—others had advanced it before, and Yuan dynasty tribute had indeed been transported by sea.
But most people harbored an instinctive fear of the ocean—especially in a traditional continental nation. Apart from coastal inhabitants, the majority believed that venturing to sea was a life-or-death gamble. The thought of shipping hundreds of thousands of shi of grain across open water seemed terribly precarious.
Zhang Pu was no exception. Having no direct experience with maritime transport, he observed: "The seas are unpredictable. I hear that grain and provisions shipped from Dengzhou to Liaodong suffer considerable losses en route. The tribute grain is the foundation of the realm..."
Zhao Yingong thought: Those "losses" go less to the Dragon King than to a swarm of officials and officers—successive Dengzhou-Laizhou governors, Dongjiang commanders, Ministry of Revenue functionaries... They've likely profited enough from those "losses" to spend for generations. If going abroad weren't considered exile to barbarian lands, they'd have emigrated their families long ago.
"Losses at sea are indeed unavoidable, but not all are acts of heaven," Zhao Yingong hinted. He then pressed the point: "Consider this: though the Yuan dynasty was short-lived, it still endured ninety-seven years. If sea transport losses had been truly catastrophic, the Yuan could not have survived even seven."
The conversation with Zhang Pu continued for several hours. The depth and breadth of Zhao Yingong's economic knowledge greatly impressed this late-Ming literary leader. By its very nature, the Revival Society was not a group devoted to empty theorizing about moral principles and Confucian philosophy—they placed considerable value on "statecraft and practical application."
Though Zhang Pu ultimately gave no definite answer, Zhao Yingong sensed that the objectives of his visit had largely been achieved.
In the Qianqing Palace, lights still burned deep into the night.
The palace drum tower had already struck the third watch, yet the attendant eunuchs continued quietly trimming candle wicks. Evidently, the Emperor intended to work through yet another night reviewing memorials.
In the brightly-lit warm chamber, piles of memorials and dispatches lay stacked neatly atop the imperial desk. These had all arrived that afternoon from the Office of Transmission, nearly covering half the writing surface.
The Emperor sat behind his desk. In the lamplight, his complexion appeared sallow—the characteristic pallor of one who chronically worked through the night with a taxed spirit. Endless memorials to read, endless matters to handle. In terms of diligence, the Chongzhen Emperor surpassed not only his father, brother, and grandfather, but ranked among the most industrious of all Ming sovereigns.
Yet like a student who studied with utmost dedication but perpetually failed his examinations, his diligence brought not the slightest improvement to Ming fortunes—indeed, the situation only deteriorated further.
Natural disasters from every quarter—droughts, floods, epidemics, earthquakes, banditry—memorials requesting tax relief and disaster aid flew in like snowflakes from all regions. Even the normally prosperous southeast, the empire's fiscal mainstay, suffered continuous calamities. The already dire financial situation had become nearly unsustainable.
Military pressures mounted relentlessly, beset from within and without. Not only were the Shaanxi bandits growing into a serious threat, but the invasion of the Eastern Barbarians across the frontier had shaken him profoundly.
As if Ming's situation weren't dire enough, just when the She-An Rebellion was finally subsiding, Guangdong reported a massive pirate force—the crop-headed raiders—who had invaded Qiongzhou and reached the very walls of Guangzhou. When Governor-General Wang Zunde dispatched forces to suppress them, Regional Commander He Rubin had suffered a catastrophic defeat at Qiongzhou, virtually annihilating the provincial forces. Then came a blizzard of dispatches documenting the raiders' devastation of Guangdong.
Fortunately, the crop-heads' month-long siege of Guangzhou had failed, and they had retreated to sea. Though local damage was reported as severe, at least no prefectures or counties had fallen. He had decreed tax exemptions for several of the ravaged districts—which eased his mind somewhat. Guangdong was now the second-largest source of revenue after the southeast. If Guangdong were laid waste, the situation would truly become unsustainable.
When Governor Li Fengjie reported that the crop-heads had retreated beyond the Bogue and their whereabouts were unknown, the Emperor finally breathed easier. From the evasive phrasing and circumlocutions in the memorials and dispatches, he gathered that local forces had likely suffered yet more defeats with heavy losses and widespread devastation—in the end probably just "escorting" the raiders' departure.
Even this outcome satisfied him. At least the crop-heads hadn't become yet another pestilence, and the lost counties of Qiongzhou Prefecture had been recovered. The Ming had bled too much against the Eastern Barbarians and the bandits—it could ill afford another enemy in the crop-heads. Though Guangdong's forces had been mauled, at least no lasting threat remained. For that alone, he thanked heaven.
Yet such reassuring memorials were rare. What arrived daily at his desk was an endless torrent of bad news. For the past several months, the Dengzhou mutiny had been his most vexing concern.
Military mutinies themselves were no longer extraordinary. Since the late Tianqi era, the armies had grown increasingly unruly—demanding pay at every turn, erupting in riot over any slight, assaulting civil officials and murdering their own commanders with alarming regularity. Dongjiang in particular, since Mao Wenlong's execution, had never known peace. Yet now Dongjiang veterans had mutinied at Dengzhou itself, openly seizing counties and slaughtering officials.
The situation spiraled beyond control. Reports claimed the mutineers had captured seven cities in succession—the fall of Dengzhou especially alarmed him. Dengzhou was the key naval fortress of the Liaodong front, linking Dongjiang with Shandong and serving as the portal for communications with Korea. Over the years, the court had invested heavily—especially after Sun Yuanhua became governor, spending 800,000 taels annually on training new troops and casting artillery. Now all of it had gone up in smoke. How could he not feel anguish?
In his fury, he had several times contemplated dismissing Sun Yuanhua and bringing him to justice. But each time he had hesitated.
After Sun Yuanhua broke out of Dengzhou and escaped, he had been organizing defense and counterattack from Laizhou. Removing him now, with no suitable replacement available, seemed ill-advised. Moreover, the Dengzhou-Laizhou region's troops had largely served under Sun Yuanhua. Appointing a new governor might destabilize their morale—if that triggered another incident, it would only compound the disaster.
Furthermore, Grand Secretaries Xu Guangqi and Zhou Yanru were exerting themselves to shield Sun Yuanhua, petitioning the Emperor to let him atone through meritorious service.
Both Grand Secretaries were men the Emperor respected and relied upon. Their opinions could not be ignored.
At the moment, what vexed the Emperor most was the fierce debate this crisis had sparked.
Initially, the argument centered on "suppression versus pacification." Gradually, the attacks concentrated on Xiong Mingyuan and Zhou Yanru. Impeachment memorials piled up on his desk like snowdrifts.
Xiong Mingyuan was one matter. But Zhou Yanru was capable and efficient—an indispensable figure in the Cabinet who could share his administrative burdens. Now, because of Sun Yuanhua, all the memorials were targeting Zhou Yanru. That Sun Yuanhua's appointment as Dengzhou Governor had been arranged by Zhou Yanru, that Sun Yuanhua had sent Zhou Yanru gifts of Liaodong sable pelts and ginseng—these were no secrets to an Emperor who controlled the Eastern Depot and the Embroidered Guard.
"These officials claim they want to punish Sun Yuanhua, but in truth, they're targeting Zhou Yusheng," he mused, a hint of suspicion stirring. Could there be factional maneuvering behind this? Nothing did the Emperor dread more than "factionalism."
Yet the recent blizzard of impeachments directed at Zhou Yanru had gradually eroded his original trust in the Chief Grand Secretary.
(End of Chapter)