Emperor of Japan

by Donald Keene

  On August 11 the emperor’s ancestors were officially informed of the proclamation of war. Ceremonies were held in the palace sanctuary, and high-ranking nobles were dispatched to the Ise Shrine and to the tomb of Emperor Kōmei to report the news. Some days earlier, shortly after the emperor’s declaration of war had been issued, Imperial Household Minister Hijikata Hisamoto visited the emperor to ask which envoys he wished sent to Ise and the tomb of Emperor Kōmei. The emperor answered, “Don’t send anybody. I have not been in favor of this war from the start. It was only because cabinet ministers informed me that war was inevitable that I permitted it. It is very painful for me to report what has happened to the Ise Shrine and the tomb of the previous emperor.” Hijikata, astonished by these remarks, admonished the emperor, “But Your Majesty has already issued a declaration of war. I wonder if Your Majesty might not be mistaken in giving me such a command.” The emperor flew into a rage and said, “Not another word out of you. I don’t wish to see you again.” Hijikata withdrew in fear and trepidation.54

  After he returned to his home, Hijikata gave earnest thought to the situation. The proclamation of war had already been disseminated at home and abroad, and units of the army and navy were on their way to the front. He could not bear to think of the effect the emperor’s words might have on the future of the war, yet there was no doubting he meant his words. Hijikata considered consulting with Itō but feared that would only make things more complicated. He could not sleep that night for worry and anguish. The next morning, however, the chief chamberlain came with a message from the emperor commanding Hijikata to waste no time in choosing envoys to be sent to Ise and to Kyōto. Hijikata hurried to the palace, where he found the emperor in good humor, quite changed from the previous night, Hijikata gave him the names of two men, then burst into tears of emotion.

  Evidently, on thinking over the matter, the emperor had decided that it was impossible to call off the war at this late stage. But what had made him so loath to approve the declaration of war? Perhaps, as he had earlier said, he feared that war might permit some other country to intervene, to Japan’s detriment. Or it might be that the thought of a war in which many Japanese soldiers would surely be killed was so distasteful that he wanted no part of it. Or conceivably, he may have feared that Japan might not be a match for China. The foreign press was unanimous in predicting a Chinese victory once Japan’s initial advantages of discipline and preparedness had dissipated.55 Finally, it may be that the emperor, whose education had been so heavily based on the Confucian classics, did not wish to fight against the country that had given birth to the Sage.

  We shall probably never know why Meiji was reluctant to report to the gods or to his father’s tomb the declaration of war; but by the next morning he had changed his mind, and from then on until the end of the war he did not waver in his devotion to the Japanese fighting on the Asian mainland and on the sea.

  Chapter 45

  The war with China went so well for the Japanese that soon there were discussions of what policy should be adopted toward Korea after the victory. Mutsu Munemitsu presented four plans to the cabinet meeting on August 17, 1894:

  1. Having declared the independence of Korea and the need for reforms in its internal administration, the Japanese government should let the Koreans work out for themselves the future of their country.

  2. Although nominally treating Korea as an independent country, the Japanese government should support its independence both directly and indirectly on a permanent or long-term basis and strive to keep Korea from being humiliated by other countries.

  3. If the Japanese government believes that Korea lacks the strength to be independent and that it would be unwise for Japan to protect it single-handedly, Japan and China should jointly assume responsibility for the integrity of Korean territory.

  4. If the third plan is thought not to be advisable, the neutrality of Korea should be guaranteed by the major powers, in the manner of Belgium and Switzerland in Europe.

  The cabinet decided that it was still premature to adopt a fixed policy, but for the time being the second plan would be the general strategy.1

  In keeping with this policy of friendly support to Korea, on August 20 the emperor commanded the adviser to the Privy Council, Saionji Kinmochi, to go to Korea with presents and a message for King Kojong. The letter expressed Meiji’s great concern over recent events in Korea and his confidence that the king in his wisdom and resolution would strengthen the foundations of national prosperity. In token of unchanging friendship, the emperor sent gifts—a sword and a pair of vases. The king, replying in kind, expressed joy that Meiji had strengthened the ties of friendship between Japan and Korea and thanked him for sending Japanese troops to preserve Korean independence.2

  The Japanese were anxious about the impression produced on foreign countries by their actions in Korea. Foreign Minister Mutsu Munemitsu sent identical messages to the minister plenipotentiary Ōtori Keisuke and the Japanese army and navy commanders in Korea, reminding them that they must avoid any act that violated Korean independence, even if this resulted in military inconvenience or was uneconomical. He realized that at times there might be no choice but to make demands of the Korean government, but these demands should never exceed what the government of Korea, as an independent country, could accept without losing face. Finally, he reminded them that Korea was not an enemy but an ally of Japan and that goods needed for military or other purposes must be paid for, the sum being sufficient to satisfy the sellers. Under no circumstances should an impression be given of plundering the country.

  On August 26 Japan and Korea signed an alliance providing that the two countries would cooperate to drive Chinese troops from Korean soil, strengthen Korean independence, and promote the interests of both Japan and Korea.

  The emperor, though (as we have seen) at first reluctant for Japan to become engaged in a war with China, quickly threw himself into his role as supreme commander of the armed forces. Because he alone combined political and military authority, his decisions were needed frequently. During the Sino-Japanese War, about ninety meetings were held in his presence, attended not only by the chief military officers but also, at the emperor’s request, by Itō Hirobumi.3 Itō’s attention as a civil official was divided between the successful prosecution of the war and the possibility that other countries might seek to intervene in the war, especially if it was prolonged.4 Fortunately, negotiations with the British for treaty revision had at last been successful, and the end of the hated extraterritoriality was in sight.5

  On September 1 the emperor received Prince Taruhito, the chief of the general staff, who asked that the imperial headquarters be moved to Hiroshima in order to improve communications with the forces fighting in Korea. The proposal of moving headquarters had originated with Itō, who suggested that Shimonoseki (in his native Chōshū) would be suitable because it was the closest port to Korea; but the military favored Hiroshima, the headquarters of the Fifth Division. Hiroshima was the western terminus of the railway from Tōkyō, and Ujina, the port of Hiroshima, was the embarkation point for troops on their way to Korea. Moving the headquarters to Hiroshima would improve communications with the front, but it would also hamper negotiations with foreign diplomats, all of whom remained in Tōkyō.6

  The order to move headquarters to Hiroshima was issued on September 8. As commander in chief, the emperor also moved, and he was accompanied by chamberlains, personal physicians, secretaries, and so on. Prime Minister Itō Hirobumi was asked to go with the emperor to Hiroshima.7

  The emperor left Tōkyō by train on September 13. Many dignitaries saw him off at Shimbashi Station. Along the route to the station, soldiers, students, and ordinary civilians lined the streets, crying “Banzai” as his carriage went by. At every village the emperor’s railway carriage passed, the entire population, on both sides of the railway tracks, respectfully greeted the emperor. The emperor spent the night in Nagoya, leaving the next morning for Kōbe. Land and sea secur
ity measures were extremely strict in Kōbe because of the large Chinese population, but the emperor, indifferent to the possible danger, that night admired the autumn moon, chatting and laughing with his entourage until very late. Those who waited on him were impressed by his ability to rise above petty concerns.8

  The emperor arrived in Hiroshima on the evening of September 15 and went at once to imperial headquarters, located in a simple, two-story wooden structure.9 Meiji’s quarters—an office, bath, toilet, and dressing room—were on the second floor. The rest of that floor and the whole of the floor below were occupied by the quarters of his staff and war council rooms. The only unusual feature of the emperor’s office was a gold screen behind his seat and two tables, on one of which were placed the sacred sword and jewel and on the other the imperial seal. The same room was used for his official business, his meals, and his sleeping. In the morning, while he was washing, his bed was removed and replaced by a desk and a chair. Except for the desk, the chair, and a few other items brought from Tōkyō, the room contained no furniture, and the only decoration on the wall was a cheap clock.10 Later, the room acquired some decorations, including artificial flowers made by the noncommissioned officers and sailors of the Kure garrison as well as trophies from the front.

  The emperor was unwilling to have his quarters made more comfortable. A chamberlain suggested that he use an easy chair or (as it grew colder) a stove, but he refused, asking if such things were to be found at the front. When someone else proposed that an addition be made to the building to give the emperor more space, he again refused, saying that he did not wish the building to be extended for his comfort. He said of his quarters, “When I think of the hardships our officers and men are experiencing at the front, how can this be called discomfort?”11

  On the same day that the emperor moved to his quarters in Hiroshima, Japanese forces in northern Korea attacked the Chinese entrenched in Pyongyang. The Chinese and Japanese troops involved in the fighting were about equal in numbers, some 12,000 men, but it was an accepted principle that a successful siege required three times more attacking soldiers than defenders. The Chinese, moreover, were armed with more modern weapons than the Japanese.12 On top of these material disadvantages, the Japanese troops were exhausted by the long march to Pyongyang. They nevertheless opened an all-out attack.

  Chinese resistance was stubborn, and although the Japanese captured some positions, the main fortifications proved too strong to assault. At a critical moment in the fighting, a Japanese soldier scaled the wall and opened the northern Gembu Gate, and the Japanese troops flooded into the city. Most of the Chinese inside, including the supreme commander, Yeh Chih-chao, seeing that the battle was going against them, abandoned the city, fleeing toward the Yalu River, the border between Korea and China. One Chinese officer is remembered for his somewhat quixotic bravery: Tso Pao-kuei, considering that surrender was dishonorable, put on the dress uniform that the emperor of China had given him, and led his men in a charge. He was struck by a Japanese shell and died on the field.13 The Japanese suffered 180 men killed and more than 500 wounded, but more than 2,000 Chinese soldiers died and 600 were taken prisoner. Pyongyang was the last Chinese base in Korea; from this point on, the fighting was on Chinese soil.

  A hero emerged from the victory at Pyongyang, a first-class private named Harada Jūkichi, the man who opened the Gembu Gate. For his achievement (which made possible the Japanese victory), he was promoted on the spot to superior private, a modest acknowledgment of extraordinary courage. He was also awarded the Order of the Golden Kite. More lasting tributes to his bravery are found in the many nishikie showing him in the act of the climbing the wall in order to open the gate from the other side; battling Chinese soldiers inside the wall; or standing on top of the wall, a Chinese he has just killed at his feet, in solitary contemplation of the burning city.14 Harada was also celebrated in song, including one that opens

  Diving under bullets thicker than rain,

  He scrambles up the castle wall,

  Just like a monkey,

  And lightly jumps inside; this man

  Is none other than Mr. Harada Jūkichi.15

  Harada’s story was made into a play called Repeated Victories on Land and Sea, the Glorious Rising-Sun Flag presented at the Kabuki Theater with Onoe Kikugorō in the role of Harada (called Sawada Jūshichi in the play). But the role of a hero was apparently too demanding for Harada. After the war he sold his Order of the Golden Kite and drank the proceeds. For a time he appeared on the stage, reenacting his epic deed. One reason for his dissipation may have been the discovery that he was not the first man over the wall. A suicide squad had already scaled the wall, and a member of this squad named Matsumura Akitarō, at first supposed dead, survived and returned to Japan. The authorities, fearing that if known, his story would lessen Harada’s glory, forbade him to disclose it.16

  After learning of the capture of Pyongyang, the emperor issued a rescript of congratulations praising the soldiers’ loyalty and bravery. This was relayed by telegram to Nozu Michizane, the commanding general of the Fifth Division, whose reply stated that all the officers, noncommissioned officers, and soldiers had wept tears of emotion on learning of the emperor’s praise and had pledged to repay the imperial graciousness by continuing to advance at the risk of their lives.17

  Japan’s success on land was followed by a major victory at sea. On September 17, the day after the fall of Pyongyang, a battle was fought in the Yellow Sea between the Japanese Combined Fleet and the Chinese Northern Sea Fleet, the first naval battle fought between ships using steam power. The Japanese fleet, consisting of eleven warships, was under the command of Vice Admiral Itō Sukeyuki aboard the flagship Matsushima. The Chinese fleet of twelve ships had somewhat smaller tonnage and was slower than the Japanese, but two of the ships (the flagship, Ting-yüan, and the Chen-yüan) were ironclads and said to be the most powerful ships in the East.18 German, British, and American officers were aboard some of the Chinese ships.

  On the morning of the battle, a column of smoke was detected on the horizon, and soon many similar columns made it clear that the Chinese fleet had been encountered. At about one in the afternoon the Ting-yüan opened fire at a distance about 10,000 feet. The Japanese fleet responded with intense fire. The Japanese ships suffered severe damage, including a hit on the Matsushima, but not a single Chinese ship escaped damage, and three were sunk. Although the two ironclads managed to retreat to Port Arthur, control of the seas around not only Korea but also north China had passed into the hands of the Japanese.19

  This naval battle also produced a hero, a sailor aboard the Matsushima who had been badly wounded by a shell from a Chinese ironclad. With his dying breath he asked the officer who comforted him, “Hasn’t the Ting-yüan sunk yet?” Sasaki Nobutsuna composed a poem using these words which, set to music, became the most haunting of the many songs that came out of the war. It concludes:

  “Hasn’t the Ting-yüan sunk yet?”

  These words, though brief,

  Will long be engraved in the hearts

  Of loyal subjects who strive for Our Country.

  “Hasn’t the Ting-yüan sunk yet?”

  These words from a sincere heart

  Will be recorded in the burning breasts

  Of loyal subjects who love Our Country.20

  The sailor, like the bugler and the wall climber, was a humble member of the Japanese armed forces. Their elevation to immortality made the victory over China seem that of the entire Japanese people rather than (as in earlier Japanese warfare) a victory won by samurai swords.

  Although the emperor was the supreme commander, he did not intervene in the conduct of the war. His reason for being in Hiroshima was to reassure the fighting men that he was with them in spirit and to inspire them to perform deeds of valor and patriotism.21 This was why he insisted on enduring discomfort, not permitting himself any luxury denied to men at the front. He refused to have the empress or court ladies serve him because t
here were no women helping the men at the front, and he depended instead on chamberlains who performed household duties awkwardly.22

  When not reading dispatches from the front, the emperor occasionally amused himself by playing kemari (kickball) or archery. In an attempt to relieve the tedium, members of his staff showed him swords and objects of art from different parts of the Hiroshima region. Sometimes the emperor had members of his staff with a reputation for skill at drawing paint pictures on subjects he assigned. Once in a while he himself drew pictures. Hinonishi Sukehiro, a chamberlain, recalled, “His pictures were not very good, but I thought if I were given one it would be a treasure for my house. But he would tear up a picture at once and I never received one.”23

  It is surprising that the emperor did not compose more poetry during his stay in Hiroshima.24 He did, however, compose the war song “The Battle of Song-hwan,” which contains such lines as

  Our dauntless warriors

  Stepping over the corpses of friend and foe,

  Advance, their spirits high.25

  The poem, set to music, on October 26 was sung to the accompaniment of a military band while the emperor had his dinner. The music, however, did not please the emperor, and two days later it was sung to the music of “The Sound of Bugles” by Katō Yoshikiyo, a piece the emperor liked so much that he had it played after dinner almost every evening.26 The emperor also composed a nō play called The Battle of Song-hwan. He asked an official of the Interior Ministry to add musical notation, and the resulting work was sung in his presence.27

  The emperor’s life in Hiroshima was enlivened by the special session of the imperial Diet that met in Hiroshima from October 18 to October 22. Minister of Communications Kuroda Kiyotaka and Interior Minister Inoue Kaoru had proposed to Itō Hirobumi that the Diet meet in Hiroshima, arguing that it would have a more powerful effect on the Diet members if the emperor himself read his rescript on opening the session, rather than if somebody else read it in Tōkyō, and it was so arranged. The emperor’s message expressed regret that China, having forgotten its duty to maintain peace in the Orient, had brought about the present situation. Now that hostilities had broken out, Japan would not stop until its goals had been attained. He hoped that subjects of the empire, joining their efforts behind him, would achieve complete victory, speedily restoring peace in the Orient and enhancing the national glory.28