country people are resolved to destroy your railways and your
settlements and your authorities. On a fixed day we shall send
word to our patriots in the north, in the south, in Pyeng-yang
and Kyung Sang, to rise and drive away all Japanese from the
various ports, and although your soldiers are skillful with their
guns it will be very hard for them to stand against our twenty
million people. We will first attack the Japanese in Korea, but
when we have finished them we will appeal to the Foreign Powers
to assure the independence and freedom of our country. Before we
send the word to our fellow-countrymen we give you this advice."
I resolved to try to see the fighting. This, I soon found, was easier
attempted than done.
The first difficulty came from the Japanese authorities. They refused to
grant me a passport, declaring that, owing to the disturbances, they could
not guarantee my safety in the interior. An interview followed at the
Residency-General, in which I was duly warned that if I travelled without a
passport I would be liable, under International treaties, to "arrest at any
point on the journey and punishment."
This did not trouble me very much. My real fear had been that the Japanese
would consent to my going, but would insist on sending a guard of Japanese
soldiers with me. It was more than doubtful if, at that time, the Japanese
had any right to stop a foreigner from travelling in Korea, for the
passport regulations had long been virtually obsolete. This was a point
that I was prepared to argue out at leisure after my arrest and confinement
in a Consular jail. So the preparations for my departure were continued.
The traveller in Korea, away from the railroads, must carry everything he
wants with him, except food for his horses. He must have at least three
horses or ponies: one for himself, one pack-pony, and one for his bedding
and his "boy," Each pony needs its own "mafoo," or groom, to cook its food
and to attend to it. So, although travelling lightly and in a hurry, I
would be obliged to take two horses, one pony, and four attendants with me.
My friends in Seoul, both white and Korean, were of opinion that if I
attempted the trip I would probably never return. Korean tiger-hunters and
disbanded soldiers were scattered about the hills, waiting for the chance
of pot-shots at passing Japanese. They would certainly in the distance take
me for a Japanese, since the Japanese soldiers and leaders all wear foreign
clothes, and they would make me their target before they found out their
mistake. A score of suggestions were proffered as to how I should avoid
this. One old servant of mine begged me to travel in a native chair, like a
Korean gentleman. This chair is a kind of small box, carried by two or four
bearers, in which the traveller sits all the time crouched up on his
haunches. Its average speed is less than two miles an hour. I preferred the
bullets. A member of the Korean Court urged me to send out messengers each
night to the villages where I would be going next day, telling the people
that I was "Yong guk ta-in" (Englishman) and so they must not shoot me. And
so on and so forth.
This exaggerated idea of the risks of the trip unfortunately spread abroad.
The horse merchant demanded specially high terms for the hire of his
beasts, because he might never see them again. I needed a "boy," or native
servant, and although there are plenty of "boys" in Seoul none at first was
to be had.
I engaged one servant, a fine upstanding young Korean, Wo by name, who had
been out on many hunting and mining expeditions. I noticed that he was
looking uneasy, and I was scarcely surprised when at the end of the third
day he came to me with downcast eyes. "Master," he said, "my heart is very
much frightened. Please excuse me this time."
"What is there to be frightened about?" I demanded.
"Korean men will shoot you and then will kill me because my hair is cut"
The rebels were reported to be killing all men not wearing topknots.
Exit Wo. Some one recommended Han, also with a great hunting record. But
when Han heard the destination he promptly withdrew. Sin was a good boy out
of place. Sin was sent for, but forwarded apologies for not coming.
One Korean was longing to accompany me--my old servant in the war, Kim
Min-gun. But Kim was in permanent employment and could not obtain leave.
"Master," he said contemptuously, when he heard of the refusals, "these men
plenty much afraid," At last Kim's master very kindly gave him permission
to accompany me, and the servant difficulty was surmounted.
My preparations were now almost completed, provisions bought, horses hired,
and saddles overhauled. The Japanese authorities had made no sign, but they
knew what was going on. It seemed likely that they would stop me when I
started out.
Then fortune favoured me. A cablegram arrived for me from London. It was
brief and emphatic:--
"Proceed forthwith Siberia."
My expedition was abandoned, the horses sent away, and the saddles thrown
into a corner. I cabled home that I would soon be back. I made the hotel
ring with my public and private complaints about this interference with my
plans. I visited the shipping offices to learn of the next steamer to
Vladivostock.
A few hours before I was to start I chanced to meet an old friend, who
questioned me confidentially, "I suppose it is really true that you are
going away, and that this is not a trick on your part?" I left him
thoughtful, for his words had shown me the splendid opportunity in my
hands. Early next morning, long before dawn, my ponies came back, the boys
assembled, the saddles were quickly fixed and the packs adjusted, and soon
we were riding as hard as we could for the mountains. The regrettable part
of the affair is that many people are still convinced that the whole
business of the cablegram was arranged by me in advance as a blind, and no
assurances of mine will convince them to the contrary.
As in duty bound, I sent word to the acting British Consul-General, telling
him of my departure. My letter was not delivered to him until after I had
left. On my return I found his reply awaiting me at my hotel.
"I consider it my duty to inform you," he wrote, "that I received
a communication on the 7th inst. from the Residency-General
informing me that, in view of the disturbed conditions in the
interior, it is deemed inadvisable that foreign subjects should
be allowed to travel in the disturbed districts for the present I
would also call your attention to the stipulation in Article V.
of the treaty between Great Britain and Korea, under which
British subjects travelling in the interior of the country
without a passport are liable to arrest and to a penalty."
In Seoul no one could tell where or how the "Righteous Army" might be
found. The information doled out by the Japanese authorities was
fragmentary, and was obviously and naturally framed in such a manner as to
minimize and discredit the disturbances. It was admitted that the Korean
volunteers had a day or two earlier destroyed a small railway station on
the line to Fusan. We knew that a small party of them had attacked the
Japanese guard of a store of rifles, not twenty miles from the capital, and
had driven them off and captured the arms and ammunition. Most of the
fighting, so far as one could judge, appeared to have been around the town
of Chung-ju, four days' journey from Seoul. It was for there I aimed,
travelling by an indirect bridle-path in order to avoid the Japanese as far
as possible.
The country in which I soon found myself presented a field of industry and
of prosperity such as I had seen nowhere else in Korea. Between the
somewhat desolate mountain ranges and great stretches of sandy soil we came
upon innumerable thriving villages. Every possible bit of land, right up
the hillsides, was carefully cultivated. Here were stretches of cotton,
with bursting pods all ready for picking, and here great fields of
buckwheat white with flower. The two most common crops were rice and
barley, and the fields were heavy with their harvest. Near the villages
were ornamental lines of chilies and beans and seed plants for oil, with
occasional clusters of kowliang, fully twelve and thirteen feet high.
In the centre of the fields was a double-storied summer-house, made of
straw, the centre of a system of high ropes, decked with bits of rag,
running over the crops in all directions. Two lads would sit on the upper
floor of each of these houses, pulling the ropes, flapping the rags, and
making all kinds of harsh noises, to frighten away the birds preying on the
crops.
The villages themselves were pictures of beauty and of peace. Most of them
were surrounded by a high fence of wands and matting. At the entrance there
sometimes stood the village "joss," although many villages had destroyed
their idols. This "joss" was a thick stake of wood, six or eight feet high,
with the upper part roughly carved into the shape of a very ugly human
face, and crudely coloured in vermilion and green. It was supposed to
frighten away the evil spirits.
The village houses, low, mud-walled, and thatch-roofed, were seen this
season at their best. Gay flowers grew around. Melons and pumpkins,
weighted with fruit, ran over the walls. Nearly every roof displayed a
patch of vivid scarlet, for the chilies had just been gathered, and were
spread out on the housetops to dry. In front of the houses were boards
covered with sliced pumpkins and gherkins drying in the sun for winter use.
Every courtyard had its line of black earthenware jars, four to six feet
high, stored with all manner of good things, mostly preserved vegetables of
many varieties, for the coming year.
I had heard much of the province of Chung-Chong-Do as the Italy of Korea,
but its beauty and prosperity required seeing to be believed. It afforded
an amazing contrast to the dirt and apathy of Seoul. Here every one worked.
In the fields the young women were toiling in groups, weeding or
harvesting. The young men were cutting bushes on the hillsides, the father
of the family preparing new ground for the fresh crop, and the very
children frightening off the birds. At home the housewife was busy with her
children and preparing her simples and stores; and even the old men busied
themselves over light tasks, such as mat-making. Every one seemed
prosperous, busy, and happy. There were no signs of poverty. The uprising
had not touched this district, save in the most incidental fashion.
My inquiries as to where I should find any signs of the fighting always met
with the same reply--"The Japanese have been to Ichon, and have burned many
villages there." So we pushed on for Ichon as hard as we could.
The chief problem that faced the traveller in Korea who ventured away from
the railways in those days was how to hasten the speed of his party. "You
cannot travel faster than your pack," is one of those indisputable axioms
against which the impatient man fretted in vain. The pack-pony was led by a
horseman, who really controlled the situation. If he sulked and determined
to go slowly nothing could be done. If he hurried, the whole party must
move quickly.
The Korean mafoo regards seventy li (about twenty-one miles) as a fair
day's work. He prefers to average sixty li, but if you are very insistent
he may go eighty. It was imperative that I should cover from a hundred to a
hundred and twenty li a day.
I tried a mixture of harsh words, praise, and liberal tips. I was up at
three in the morning, setting the boys to work at cooking the animals'
food, and I kept them on the road until dark. Still the record was not
satisfactory. It is necessary in Korea to allow at least six hours each day
for the cooking of the horses' food and feeding them. This is a time that
no wise traveller attempts to cut. Including feeding-times, we were on the
go from sixteen to eighteen hours a day. Notwithstanding this, the most we
had reached was a hundred and ten li a day.
Then came a series of little hindrances. The pack-pony would not eat its
dinner; its load was too heavy. "Hire a boy to carry part of its load," I
replied. A hundred reasons would be found for halting, and still more for
slow departure.
It was clear that something more must be done. I called the pack-pony
leader on one side. He was a fine, broad-framed giant, a man who had in his
time gone through many fights and adventures. "You and I understand one
another," I said to him. "These others with their moanings and cries are
but as children. Now let us make a compact. You hurry all the time and I
will give you" (here I whispered a figure into his ear that sent a
gratified smile over his face) "at the end of the journey. The others need
know nothing. This is between men."
He nodded assent. From that moment the trouble was over. Footsore mafoos,
lame horses, grumbling innkeepers--nothing mattered. "Let the fires burn
quickly." "Out with the horses," The other horse-keepers, not understanding
his changed attitude, toiled wearily after him. At night-time he would look
up, as he led his pack-pony in at the end of a record day, and his grim
smile would proclaim that he was keeping his end of the bargain.
"It is necessary for us to show these men something of the strong hand of
Japan," one of the leading Japanese in Seoul, a close associate of the
Prince Ito, told me shortly before I left that city. "The people of the
eastern mountain districts have seen few or no Japanese soldiers, and they
have no idea of our strength. We must convince them how strong we are."
As I stood on a mountain-pass, looking down on the valley leading to Ichon,
I recalled these words of my friend. The "strong hand of Japan" was
certainly being shown here. I beheld in front of me village after village
reduced to ashes.
I rode down to the nearest heap of ruins. The place had been quite a large
village, with probably seventy or eighty houses. Destruction, thorough and
complete, had fallen upon it. Not a single house was left, and not a single
wall of a house. Every pot with the winter stores was broken. The very
earthen fireplaces were wrecked.
The villagers had come back to the ruins again, and were already
rebuilding. They had put up temporary refuges of straw. The young men were
out on the hills cutting wood, and every one else was toiling at
house-making. The crops were ready to harvest, but there was no time to
gather them in. First of all, make a shelter.
During the next few days sights like these were to be too common to arouse
much emotion. But for the moment I looked around on these people, ruined
and homeless, with quick pity. The old men, venerable and dignified, as
Korean old men mostly are, the young wives, many with babes at their
breasts, the sturdy men, had composed, if I could judge by what I saw, an
exceptionally clean and peaceful community.
There was no house in which I could rest, so I sat down under a tree, and
while Min-gun was cooking my dinner the village elders came around with
their story. One thing especially struck me. Usually the Korean woman was
shy, retiring, and afraid to open her mouth in the presence of a stranger.
Here the women spoke up as freely as the men. The great calamity had broken
down the barriers of their silence.
"We are glad," they said, "that a European man has come to see what has
befallen us. We hope you will tell your people, so that all men may know.
"There had been some fighting on the hills beyond our village," and they
pointed to the hills a mile or two further on. "The Eui-pyung" (the
volunteers) "had been there, and had torn up some telegraph poles. The
Eui-pyung came down from the eastern hills. They were not our men, and had
nothing to do with us. The Japanese soldiers came, and there was a fight,
and the Eui-pyung fell back.
"Then the Japanese soldiers marched out to our village, and to seven other
villages. Look around and you can see the ruins of all. They spoke many
harsh words to us. 'The Eui-pyung broke down the telegraph poles and you
did not stop them,' they said. 'Therefore you are all the same as
Eui-pyung. Why have you eyes if you do not watch, why have you strength if
you do not prevent the Eui-pyung from doing-mischief? The Eui-pyung came to
your houses and you fed them. They have gone, but we will punish you.'
"And they went from house to house, taking what they wanted and setting all
alight. One old man--he had lived in his house since he was a babe suckled
by his mother--saw a soldier lighting up his house. He fell on his knees
and caught the foot of the soldier. 'Excuse me, excuse me,' he said, with
many tears. 'Please do not burn my house. Leave it for me that I may die
there. I am an old man, and near my end.'
"The soldier tried to shake him off, but the old man prayed the more.
'Excuse me, excuse me,' he moaned. Then the soldier lifted his gun and shot
the old man, and we buried him.
"One who was near to her hour of child-birth was lying in a house. Alas for
her! One of our young men was working in the field cutting grass. He was
working and had not noticed the soldiers come. He lifted his knife,
sharpening it in the sun. 'There is a Eui-pyung,' he said, and he fired and
killed him. One man, seeing the fire, noticed that all his family records
were burning. He rushed in to try and pull them out, but as he rushed a
soldier fired, and he fell."
A man, whose appearance proclaimed him to be of a higher class than most of
the villagers, then spoke in bitter tones. "We are rebuilding our houses,"
he said, "but of what use is it for us to do so? I was a man of family. My
fathers and fathers' fathers had their record. Our family papers are
destroyed. Henceforth we are a people without a name, disgraced and
outcast."
I found, when I went further into the country, that this view was fairly
common. The Koreans regard their family existence with peculiar veneration.
The family record means everything to them. When it is destroyed, the
family is wiped out It no longer exists, even though there are many members
of it still living. As the province of Chung-Chong-Do prides itself on the
large number of its substantial families, there could be no more effective
way of striking at them than this.
I rode out of the village heavy-hearted. What struck me most about this
form of punishment, however, was not the suffering of the villagers so much
as the futility of the proceedings, from the Japanese point of view. In
place of pacifying a people, they were turning hundreds of quiet families
into rebels. During the next few days I was to see at least one town and
many scores of villages treated as this one. To what end? The villagers
were certainly not the people fighting the Japanese. All they wanted to do
was to look quietly after their own affairs. Japan professed a desire to
conciliate Korea and to win the affection and support of her people. In one
province at least the policy of house-burning had reduced a prosperous
community to ruin, increased the rebel forces, and sown a crop of bitter
hatred which it would take generations to root out.
We rode on through village after village and hamlet after hamlet burned to
the ground. The very attitude of the people told me that the hand of Japan
had struck hard there. We would come upon a boy carrying a load of wood. He
would run quickly to the side of the road when he saw us, expecting he knew
not what. We passed a village with a few houses left. The women flew to
shelter as I drew near. Some of the stories that I heard later helped me to
understand why they should run. Of course they took me for a Japanese.
All along the route I heard tales of the Japanese plundering, where they
had not destroyed. At places the village elders would bring me an old man
badly beaten by a Japanese soldier because he resisted being robbed. Then
came darker stories. In Seoul I had laughed at them. Now, face to face with
the victims, I could laugh no more.
That afternoon we rode into Ichon itself. This is quite a large town. I
found it practically deserted. Most of the people had fled to the hills, to
escape from the Japanese. I slept that night in a schoolhouse, now deserted
and unused. There were the cartoons and animal pictures and pious mottoes
around, but the children were far away. I passed through the market-place,
usually a very busy spot. There was no sign of life there.
I turned to some of the Koreans.
"Where are your women? Where are your children?" I demanded. They pointed
to the high and barren hills looming against the distant heavens.
"They are up there," they said. "Better for them to lie on the barren
hillsides than to be outraged here."
IX
WITH THE REBELS
Day after day we travelled through a succession of burned-out villages,
deserted towns, and forsaken country. The fields were covered with a rich
and abundant harvest, ready to be gathered, and impossible for the invaders
to destroy. But most of the farmers were hiding on the mountainsides,
fearing to come down. The few courageous men who had ventured to come back
were busy erecting temporary shelters for themselves before the winter cold
came on, and had to let the harvest wait. Great flocks of birds hung over
the crops, feasting undisturbed.
Up to Chong-ju nearly one-half of the villages on the direct line of route
had been destroyed by the Japanese. At Chong-ju I struck directly across
the mountains to Chee-chong, a day's journey. Four-fifths of the villages
and hamlets on the main road between these two places were burned to the
ground.
The few people who had returned to the ruins always disclaimed any
connection with the "Righteous Army." They had taken no part in the
fighting, they said. The volunteers had come down from the hills and had
attacked the Japanese; the Japanese had then retaliated by punishing the
local residents. The fact that the villagers had no arms, and were
peaceably working at home-building, seemed at the time to show the truth of
their words. Afterwards when I came up with the Korean fighters I found
these statements confirmed. The rebels were mostly townsmen from Seoul, and
not villagers from that district.
Between 10,000 and 20,000 people had been driven to the hills in this small
district alone, either by the destruction of their homes or because of fear
excited by the acts of the soldiers.
Soon after leaving Ichon I came on a village where the Red Cross was flying
over one of the houses. The place was a native Anglican church. I was later
on to see the Red Cross over many houses, for the people had the idea that
by thus appealing to the Christians' God they made a claim on the pity and
charity of the Christian nations.
In the evening, after I had settled down in the yard of the native inn, the
elders of the Church came to see me, two quiet-spoken, grave, middle-aged
men. They were somewhat downcast, and said that their village had suffered
considerably, the parties of soldiers passing through having taken what
they wanted and being guilty of some outrages. A gardener's wife had been
violated by a Japanese soldier, another soldier standing guard over the
house with rifle and fixed bayonet. A boy, attracted by the woman's
screams, ran and fetched the husband. He came up, knife in hand. "But what
could he do?" the elders asked. "There was the soldier, with rifle and
bayonet, before the door."
Later on I was to hear other stories, very similar to this. These tales
were confirmed on the spot, so far as confirmation was possible. In my
judgment such outrages were not numerous, and were limited to exceptional
parties of troops. But they produced an effect altogether disproportionate
to their numbers. The Korean has high ideals about the sanctity of his
women, and the fear caused by a comparatively few offences was largely
responsible for the flight of multitudes to the hills.
In the burning of villages, a certain number of Korean women and children
were undoubtedly killed. The Japanese troops seem in many cases to have
rushed a village and to have indulged in miscellaneous wild shooting, on
the chance of there being rebels around, before firing the houses. In one
hamlet, where I found two houses still standing, the folk told me that
these had been left because the Japanese shot the daughter of the owner of
one of them, a girl of ten. "When they shot her," the villagers said, "we
approached the soldiers, and said, 'Please excuse us, but since you have
killed the daughter of this man you should not burn his house.' And the
soldiers listened to us."