1636: The China Venture

by Eric Flint

  “No, it was because the people who run a government of a great country tend to be old not young, and they do not take seriously the opinions of young men, especially men they do not know. How old was the former Jesuit Provincial, Matteo Ricci, when he had his first audience with the Chinese Emperor?”

  “Actually, he never met the Wanli Emperor,” said Eric. “But he was invited to the Forbidden City in 1601, when he was forty-nine years old.”

  “And how old are you, Eric?”

  “I am twenty-six. But Jim here is twenty-five, so the two of us together would make an excellent ambassador.”

  “An excellent jest, but this is a most serious matter.”

  “Yes it is,” said Jim. “I take it that you are working your way around to proposing an alternative ambassador. One with lots of gray hairs.”

  Jim smiled. “The oldest member of our party is Rafael Carvalhal, our Jewish physician. Perhaps he’d do?”

  Eric covered his mouth to conceal a snicker. “Or if Johann Salvius represents the ideal age for an ambassador, then perhaps we should consider our Asia expert, Maarten Gerritszoon Vries, who’s just one year older.”

  Minuit ground his teeth. “Most amusing. Yes, I am putting myself forward as the new ambassador. I am nine years older than Salvius, I have negotiated with the Indians—”

  “The American Indians, you mean, not the Mughals,” Eric interjected. “They don’t have much in common with the Chinese, do they?”

  “—The A-mer-i-can Indians, and the British colonists in America, and I am intimate with the key investors whose participation was critical to the funding of this mission.”

  “Very true,” said Eric. “And I think that explains why you were given the honor of being the chief merchant for SEAC in Asia, but not named as a successor ambassador. The emperor recognizes that the interests of the SEAC and USE are similar, but not identical. He needs an ambassador that will put the USE first.”

  “I agree,” said Jim. “And I’m the second alternate.”

  And that ended the discussion.

  Chapter 16

  Year of the Pig, First Month (February 17–March 18, 1635)

  Eighth Year of the Reign of the Chongzhen Emperor

  The Ministry of Rites received an urgent report from the Beijing Astronomical Bureau: “In the Sun there was a black light that roiled and agitated it.”

  The best scholars in the Hanlin Academy were instructed to research when this had last happened and what it might portend. They reported back that there was a similar occurrence listed in the Veritable Record for the forty-fourth year of the Wanli Emperor—that is, from September 11 to October 10 of 1616.

  One of the scholars further pointed out that in that year, the Jurchen leader Nurhaci had declared independence from the Ming and adopted the title “Brilliant Emperor, Nurturer of All Nations.” He suggested that this was a warning of danger from the north and that reinforcements should be sent to the great fortress at Shanhaiguan, the coastal pass between China and the Jurchen homeland.

  The scholar in question was arrested, and beaten in public in front of the south gate to the Forbidden City. He was then sent into exile in the remote southwest.

  Jungyang County, Henan

  There were campfires everywhere. The rebel numbers had swelled thanks to a plague of locusts in Henan, and they were now perhaps two hundred thousand strong. It was hard to believe that only half a year ago, several of the leaders sitting in conclave this evening had surrendered to Chen Qiyu at Chexiang Gorge. Fortunately for them, and unfortunately for Chen Qiyu’s career, he had granted them amnesty, and had failed to take adequate precautions in escorting them back to Shaanxi. The rebels had slaughtered the guards and reestablished themselves. Now the leaders of thirteen different rebel groups had met up to decide where to go next, and what to do when they got there. In the meantime, their followers caroused.

  “We haven’t raided in Shaanxi since 1633,” said Ma Shouying, the “Old Muslim.” All of the rebel leaders had nicknames, often ones dating back to when they were mere bandits commanding dozens rather than thousands of men. Shouying was, in fact, one of the Hui people, Muslims living in northwest China, as marked by the white cap that he wore. “Let’s pluck it again.”

  “To do that we must cross the Yellow River,” said Zhang Xianzhong, the “Yellow Tiger.” The “Yellow” referred to the aftereffect of a bout of jaundice in childhood, and the “Tiger” to his notorious bloodlust. He had once been a follower of Ma Shouying, rising to command two thousand men, but in the winter of 1631 he had accepted an offer of surrender from Hong Chengchou. Although he rebelled again, and formed his own band, there was bad blood now between him and Ma Shouying.

  “What of it? The river is frozen over, and it’s only a few miles from where we are encamped.”

  “Shanxi is just one province west of Pei-Chihli, in which Beijing lies. The government is sensitive to what happens in Shanxi, and can move forces there quickly,” Zhang complained.

  Ma Shouying shrugged. “Then we cross back into Shaanxi or Henan.”

  “In winter, yes. But what if we find ourselves pressed back against the river in the spring, when the river is high from the melt of the mountain snows? Are we to throw ourselves into the maelstrom?”

  Ma Shouying spat into the fire. “The Yellow Tiger should perhaps change his name to the ‘Yellow Sheep,’ since he is content to chew the cud of Henan over and over again.”

  Zhang Xianzhong rose, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Gao Yingxiang, the “Dashing King,” restrained him. “We were beaten last year because we didn’t work together,” he whispered. “This is not the time to put Ma Shouying in his place.”

  His lieutenant, Li Zicheng, the “Dashing General,” tried to smooth the troubled waters. “The courage of the Yellow Tiger is not in doubt,” he told the other leaders. “Did he not display our might in distant Sichuan?” He forbore to mention that the Yellow Tiger had been trounced by Qin Liangyu, a chieftain of the Mao tribe and one of the few female commanders in the empire. “The exercise of prudence is appropriate, after the disaster of Chexiang Gorge.”

  Gao quickly affirmed his chief lieutenant’s remarks. “The Dashing General is right. If we wish to raid to Shanxi, then we must take the precaution of taking and holding a nearby crossing of the Yellow River. Perhaps the Yellow Tiger could do this if the Old Muslim insists on a foray into Shanxi?”

  Zhang Sang, a scholar who had recently joined Li Zicheng, added, “According to Sun Tzu, ‘when one attacks in enemy territory, one must preserve a line of retreat.’”

  “You know, much as I appreciate the Old Muslim’s willingness to bare his teeth at Beijing, there is no need to cross the Yellow River. The economic heart of the empire is Nan-Zhili,” Li Zicheng declared. “There is much plunder in this province.”

  “It is not just plunder that should be considered,” said Zhang Sang. “We should take Fengyang and despoil the tombs. Then people will wonder whether the present dynasty has lost the Mandate of Heaven.” Fengyang, which was only a hundred miles from Nanjing, was the childhood home of the first Ming Emperor, and held the mausoleums of his mother and father. The fires in the tomb temples were kept burning to honor them every hour of every day.

  “We can also free the prisoners,” Gao added. Fengyang was also where Ming princes and imperial eunuchs who had committed political misdeeds were confined.

  “Let us march there,” Li Zicheng said, “under banners declaring that we are in the service of the True Primal Dragon Emperor.”

  “And who is that?” asked Ma Shouying.

  Li Zicheng raised his eyes skyward. “We must wait for Heaven to reveal his identity.”

  * * *

  In February, the bandit armies under Gao Yingxiang the Dashing King and Zhang Xianzhong the Yellow Tiger assaulted Fengyang. Rather than simply mount a frontal attack, they first sent in men disguised as laborers, merchants, and Taoist priests. When the main bandit force approa
ched, drawing the attention of the defenders, a smaller force was let in another gate by the fifth columnists. Fengyang’s defenses collapsed rapidly after that, and over four thousand Ming officials, soldiers and civilians were killed. The bandit casualties were light, perhaps a hundred men.

  At “High Walls,” the Ming prison inside Fengyang for disgraced members of the imperial clan, they freed the prisoners, who hastily vanished into the countryside.

  The bandits celebrated their victory by rape, murder, pillage and arson. Over twenty-six hundred buildings and many ancient pine trees were burnt down, and the light of the tomb city could be seen from a hundred li away that night.

  The Dashing King–Yellow Tiger alliance nearly fell apart that evening. The Yellow Tiger had captured some of the eunuch musicians who played for tomb ceremonies, and Gao’s lieutenant Li Zicheng, the Dashing General, had demanded that the eunuchs be turned over to him. Incensed, the Yellow Tiger had ordered that the eunuchs’ musical instruments be collected and burnt. In turn, Li Zicheng ordered his men to kill any musician who didn’t have a musical instrument to play.

  As the instruments were collected in the center of the chamber, the eunuchs pleaded for their lives.

  Fortunately, both for them and for the bandit alliance, Zhang Sang, the bandit’s new literati advisor, leapt up. “We are all good comrades here!” he cried. “There are plenty of musicians. Let them keep their instruments, and divvy them up equally between our fine leaders. And, in honor of our alliance under the banners of the True Primal Dragon Emperor, let us have all of the musicians play a song in honor of the Dashing General, the Dashing King, and the Yellow Tiger.”

  He walked over to Li Zicheng and whispered, “Liu Bang, the founder of the Han dynasty, agreed to divide China between himself and Xiang Yu. But when the time was right, he renounced the treaty and took everything for himself. Be conciliatory, for now.…”

  Li Zicheng gritted his teeth, then relaxed them. “All right,” he whispered. And then, loudly enough for all to hear, he asked, “Where will this song come from?”

  “I will compose it shortly,” said Zhang Sang. “And while you wait for that song, let the musicians play us some good drinking songs.” The bandits roared in approval.

  Both leaders grudgingly agreed to Zhang Sang’s proposal, and Zhang Sang yelled at the musicians, “Well, what are you waiting for? Grab your instruments and play a drinking song for these fine lads!”

  He then pulled out some paper from his gear and started writing. Perhaps an hour later, he brought the composition over to the troupe; they made copies, and sang the new song. It was set to a well-known tune, so they only needed to learn the lyrics. And they were motivated to learn them quickly and well.

  Beijing

  Beijing, the Northern Capital, was really four cities in one. At the center was the Forbidden City, a north-south rectangle, where the imperial family and the eunuchs who served them lived. It had been constructed in the fourteenth century, at the beginning of the Ming Dynasty. Around it lay the Imperial City, which held the many service buildings of the bureaucracy. Around that was the Northern City, a square with a dent in the northwest corner. Here the common folk lived.

  The Northern City was defended by walls twelve to fifteen meters high and up to twenty meters thick. It was easy for a visitor, standing close by and looking upward, to imagine that its parapets were sharp mountain peaks, rather than mere city walls.

  Finally, there was the Southern City. Here were wealthy suburbs, as well as the great imperial temples of Heaven and of Agriculture. The Southern City had been walled off in 1615 in response to the Mongol raid of 1550, but its wall was only six meters tall.

  When news came of the disaster at Fengyang, the emperor donned mourning clothes, abstained from sex for a time, and ordered the execution, exile, corporal punishment, or imprisonment of various officials deemed responsible, whether they in fact had any responsibility or not. More practically, he ordered troops rushed in from other theaters to protect Nanjing and China south of the Yangtze. Hong Chengchou, the imperial commander in the northwest, was given the ceremonial double-edged sword and ordered to crush the bandits within six months.

  Naturally, the emperor was keenly interested in what the heavens had to say concerning these events and plans. And it was up to the imperial astronomers to interpret the heavenly portents, preferably without incurring the imperial wrath in the process.

  For the time being, there was no comet hanging in the sky, portending change. However, there was the normal cycle of astronomical phenomena to be observed and reported, on pain of punishment if errors were made.

  The Imperial Observatory lay just behind the east wall and near the southeast corner of the Northern City. One could walk from its rooftop onto the battlements, and an old watchtower had been incorporated into the observatory structure. The Chaoyangmen—the Gate Facing the Sun—was to the north, giving access to the countryside. Much of the grain that fed the city came through Chaoyang. The Chongwenmen—the Gate of Respectful Civility—was to the southwest of the observatory, around the corner, so to speak. It was the easternmost of the three gates between the Northern City and the Southern City. There were many distilleries to the south, in Daxing, and the price of beer was less at the market beside the Chongwen Gate than anywhere else in the city.

  Through both of these gates, there was a constant stream of peasants with oxcarts and donkeys. But the Chongwen Gate also had a richer clientele of merchants and officials, as it was the final tax station for the Grand Canal. It was, in fact, the busiest gate of the Northern City.

  The Jesuits had predicted that the umbral shadow of the Earth would begin to creep across the lunar disk at 2:36 a.m. on March 4, 1635. That was, according to the Chinese calendar, day sixteen of the first month. The protocol at the astronomical bureau was to begin observing three hours before the predicted start of an eclipse. Hence, the Jesuits and their Chinese counterparts were out on the roof of their observatory at the “hour” of the rat—Chinese hours were two European hours long, and the “hour” of the rat began at 11:00 p.m.

  The moon, of course, was full—that was a prerequisite for a lunar eclipse—and they could see the street below them clearly.

  The place where they stood was called the Terrace for Observing the Stars; it was constructed in 1442, on the orders of Zhengtong, the sixth Ming Emperor. It was part of an astronomical complex that included the Hall of Celestial Abstrusity and the Sun Shadow Hall.

  Since they had to be out anyway, the Jesuit astronomers tried to spot the penumbral shadow. The umbra was the dark part of the Earth’s shadow, where the Earth completely hid the moon from the sun. It was a cone that narrowed as it extended from the dark side of the Earth. Whereas the penumbra fell where the Earth only partially blocked the sunlight; it was a cone that widened with distance from the sun.

  This being a total eclipse, at eclipse maximum, the Moon would be fully immersed in the umbral shadow.

  * * *

  “I think I see it,” said Giacomo Rho. “It’s like a wisp of cloud.”

  Johann Adam Schall von Bell shook his head. “I don’t see anything different yet.”

  “My eyes are younger than yours.”

  “By one year! Perhaps you are seeing what you want to see?”

  Nicholas Longobardo clicked his tongue several times. “Gentlemen, please, the penumbral passage is merely the prologue; let us not argue and spoil our enjoyment of the play.”

  In the course of their argument, the three Jesuits had taken their eyes off the celestial protagonist. But their lay guest hadn’t.

  “There,” said Brother Diogo Aranha. “The Earth has taken its first bite out of the Moon.”

  The Jesuits looked up hastily. “Our new librarian is right!” said Longobardo. “What’s the time?”

  There was a European-made astronomical clock on the rooftop, and Rho consulted it. “I have 2:22.”

  Schall shrugged. “Fourteen minutes late. Fairly typical for u
s. I wonder how the Mohammedans are doing.” There were four separate and competing offices within the astronomical bureau: Jesuit, Mohammedan and two different Chinese ones.

  “They are usually off by an hour,” said Rho. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  By now, the beating of drums could be heard in the street below. The gates of course had closed at sunset, but this part of Beijing had no lack of nightlife.

  “What are they doing?” asked Aranha. He was newly arrived in China, and had not had the opportunity to spend several years in Macao to acclimate himself because of the death of his predecessor at the Beijing mission.

  Longobardo smiled. “The Chinese believe that during a lunar eclipse, a great dragon attempts to swallow the Moon. They beat the drums in an attempt to scare the dragon away. We must endure these superstitious practices until they adopt the True Faith.”

  “But you predicted that this would be a total eclipse. So they will be disappointed, won’t they?”

  “You’re right.”

  More and more of the face of the Moon was engulfed. At last, the entire face was a dark red color. The stars in night sky all seemed brighter, too.

  “We have totality. What’s the time? It should be 3:34 a.m.”

  “It’s three-thirty in the morning. Only four minutes off.” The astronomers were grinning. “Less than a third of a ke.” The Chinese also divided the day into 100 ke, so each ke was 14.4 minutes. The calendar published by the emperor on the Chinese New Year, that February, only stated eclipse times to the nearest ke. Another blow to the competition!

  The accuracy of the calendar presented to the emperor and distributed throughout the realm was politically important; it confirmed that the emperor had the Mandate of Heaven. The first observatory that had stood on this spot, built in the days of Kublai Khan, had aptly been called the Terrace for Managing Heaven.