Chapter 1169 - Cutting Off the Firewood from Under the Pot

Si Kaide's gaze fell upon the work reports recently delivered from various overseas stations. He recalled a report Zhao Yingong had recently submitted about developing a Shanghai-Tianjin maritime route. In it, Zhao Yingong had argued that the Great Ming's coastal shipping industry suffered from backward technology and low efficiency. With the Senate's current maritime capabilities, even using Shanghai's local sand junks, they could transport large quantities of goods and accelerate north-south trade flows. The grain tribute transport sector, in particular, offered significant profits—while further eroding the Great Ming's economic foundations.

But what truly captured his interest wasn't merely this proposal—it was Zhao Yingong's mention of Shanghai.

As a trading port, Shanghai held importance not only for Chinese coastal trade but also as a major foreign trade hub. Si Kaide had long pondered a question: why was Shanghai, as a port, less significant than Fujian during the Ming Dynasty? The major foreign trade ports of the Ming era—from the earliest Shuangyu and Yuegang to Anping and Xiamen in the late Ming—were without exception located along the Fujian coast.

From a purely commercial perspective, Fujian was hemmed in by mountains on three sides, with little flat land. Aside from sugar and indigo, the province itself wasn't a production base for major trade commodities. Many goods were transported over a thousand li from other provinces to Fujian before being exported. The celebrated "Kraak porcelain" of the early Ming had originally been fired in Jiangxi; only later, because transporting from Jiangxi to Fujian proved arduous and costly, had craftsmen begun establishing kilns in Fujian for local production.

Yet this situation was constrained by the already declining state of Chinese maritime positioning and navigation technology. Traditional Chinese navigation relied primarily on "needle routes"—using the compass together with coastal landmarks for sailing. Consequently, maritime voyages were generally conducted along island chains. Ships heading to Japan at the time all followed routes from Taiwan along the first island chain to the Japanese archipelago. Thus the sea routes to Japan had traditionally been dominated by ports in Zhejiang and Fujian provinces.

From the Ming Dynasty onward, the decline in astronomical positioning methods caused navigation to become increasingly dependent on coastal landmark positioning. As a result, China's coastal north-south voyaging had actually regressed from the Yuan Dynasty—when ships could sail the open seas—to the Ming, when travel was limited to passage among coastal islands.

The greatest drawback of this route was its circuitousness. The summer route from Fujian to Japan went first to Taiwan, then rode the southeast monsoon along the Ryukyus to Nagasaki—a full 1,000 nautical miles. Departing from Shanghai, however, one could choose to sail in winter on the northwest monsoon, proceeding directly to Nagasaki in only 400 nautical miles. Setting out from Shanghai, a sailing ship could reach Nagasaki in ten days. The distance was more than halved—and the route avoided the typhoons that plagued the summer months.

No matter how one examined it, Shanghai was a port a hundred times superior to Anping. Shanghai sat at the mouth of the Yangtze River, backed by the two golden waterways of the Yangtze and Grand Canal, and lay in the heart of the lower Yangtze's most productive and prosperous region. Whether Jiangxi porcelain, Zhejiang silk, or Songjiang cotton cloth—all could be shipped to Shanghai via convenient and inexpensive inland waterways. Sugar and indigo from Guangdong and Fujian could likewise travel by coastal routes.

If Zhao Yingong's Hangzhou Station could conduct large-scale trade with Japan, not only would this fat prize fall into the Senate's hands, but it would fundamentally eliminate any possibility of Zheng Zhilong, Liu Xiang, or other Fujian grand merchants rebuilding their power.

This proposal was hardly new. Si Kaide had been tempted before, but he felt the project would prove too troublesome—requiring considerable manpower and resources while risking an escalation of tensions with the Zheng family. Better, he had reasoned, to first profit from peaceful cooperation with Zheng Zhilong, then plot further later.

Now it seemed the prospect of peaceful co-optation had vanished. Opening trade with Japan from Shanghai was an inevitable step. Better to seize the initiative than wait for others to propose it. At minimum, this qualified as a stratagem for "cutting off the firewood from under the pot" against the Zheng family.

Though this wasn't direct military action, its strategic significance far outweighed a mere tactical raid.

Moreover, they now controlled Jeju Island as an intermediate base. Whether for ships seeking shelter and resupply or for stockpiling goods, the conditions were favorable—and they could use Jeju as a base for exporting Korean and Liaodong specialties to Japan. Si Kaide knew that Korean ginseng was regarded as a "miracle drug" in Japan, more precious than gold yet perpetually in short supply. Many Japanese maidens had sold themselves into servitude simply to purchase medicine for sick relatives.

Si Kaide reflected: no matter how one analyzed it, developing trade with Japan was urgent business. The question was who to send.

After lengthy deliberation, he settled on Ping Qiusheng, recently returned from Southeast Asia. Ping Qiusheng had been lobbying for precisely this assignment for quite some time. He had become one of Si Kaide's most capable subordinates. Since his Southeast Asian expedition, he had successfully established trade relations with Siam. This new trade route had brought the Senate large quantities of rice, substantially alleviating their persistent food shortage problems. Ping Qiusheng's reputation in the Senate had risen considerably—he had emerged as one of the recently prominent practical talents, and his opinions and wishes could no longer be ignored.

(End of Chapter)