THE DEPOSITION OF THE EMPEROR: PRINCE OF CHʻÊN-LIU BECOMES EMPEROR:
SCHEMES AGAINST TUNG CHO: MÊNG-TÊ PRESENTS A SWORD.
It is recorded that Tung Cho was on the point of slaying Yüan Shao, but
his adviser checked him, saying, “You must not kill rashly while the
business hangs in the balance.”
Yüan Shao, his sword still unsheathed, left the assembly. He hung up
the symbols of his office at the east gate and went to Ichow.
Tung Cho said to the Tʻai-fu Yüan Wei, “Your nephew behaved improperly
but I pardon him for your sake; what think you of my scheme?”
“What you think is right,” was the reply.
“If any one opposes the great scheme he will be dealt with by military
law,” said Tung Cho.
The ministers, thoroughly cowed, promised obedience and the feast came
to an end. Tung asked Chou Pi and Wu Chiung what they thought of the
flight of Yüan Shao.
“He left in a state of great anger. In such a state of excitement much
harm may ensue to the present state of affairs, especially as the Yüan
family have been noted for their kindness to the people for four
generations, and their protégés and dependents are everywhere. If they
assemble bold spirits and call up their clients, all the valiant
warriors will be in arms and Shantung will be lost. You had better
pardon him and give him a post. He will be glad at being forgiven and
will do no harm.”
Wu said, “Shao is fond of scheming, but he fails in decision and so is
not to be feared. But it would be well to give him rank and thus win
popular favour.”
Tung Cho followed this advice and thereupon sent a messenger to offer
Yüan Shao the command of Pohai.
In the ninth month the Emperor was invited to proceed to the Hall of
Abounding Virtue where was a great assembly of officials. There Tung
Cho, sword in hand, faced the gathering and said, “The Emperor is a
weakling unequal to the burden of ruling this land. Now listen ye to
the document I have prepared.”
And Li Ju read as follows:—“The dutiful Emperor Ling too soon left his
people. The Emperor is the cynosure of all the people of this land.
Upon the present Emperor Heaven has conferred but small gifts: in
dignity and deportment he is deficient and in mourning he is remiss.
Only the most complete virtue can grace the imperial dignity. The
Empress Mother has trained him improperly and the whole State
administration has fallen into confusion. The Empress Dowager, Jung-lê,
died suddenly and no one knew why. The doctrine of the three bonds and
the continuity of celestial and terrestrial interdependence have both
been injured. But Hsieh, Prince of Chʻên-liu, is sage and virtuous
beside being of handsome exterior. He conforms to all the rules of
propriety, his mourning is sincere; his speech is always correct.
Eulogies of him fill the Empire. He is well fitted for the great duty
of consolidating the rule of Han.
“Now therefore the Emperor is deposed and created Prince Hung-nung and
the Empress Dowager retires from the administration.
“I pray the Prince to accept the throne in conformity with the decrees
of Heaven, the desires of men and the fulfilment of the hopes of
mankind.”
This having been read Tung Cho bade the attendants lead the Emperor
down from the throne, remove his seal and cause him to kneel facing the
north, styling himself minister and requesting commands. Moreover he
bade the Empress Dowager strip off her dress of ceremony and await the
imperial command. Both victims of this oppression wept and every
minister present was deeply affected. One put his discontent into
words, crying, “The false Tung Cho is the author of this insult, which
I will risk my life to wipe away.” And with this he rushed at Tung Cho
threatening him with his ivory bâton of office.
It was the President Ting Kuan and he was removed and summarily put to
death. While he lived he ceased not to rail at the oppressor, nor was
he frightened at death.
The rebel Tung conceived the foul design
To thrust the King aside and wrong his line.
With folded arms the courtiers stood, save one
Ting Kuan, who dared to cry that wrong was done.
Then the Emperor designate went to the upper part of the hall to
receive congratulations. After this the late Emperor, his mother and
the Lady in waiting Tʻang were removed to the Palace of Perpetual Calm.
The entrance gates were locked against all comers.
It was pitiful! There was the young Emperor, after reigning less than
half a year, deposed and another put in his place. The new Emperor was
Hsieh, the second son of the late Emperor and the name under which he
reigned is Hsien. He was nine years of age and the reign-style was
changed to Chʻu-Pʻing or The Inauguration of Tranquillity.
As chief minister Tung Cho was arrogant beyond all reason. When he
bowed before the throne he did not declare his name; in going to court
he did not hasten. Booted and armed he entered the reception halls.
Never had such a thing been seen before. Li Ju impressed upon him
constantly to employ men of reputation so that he should gain public
esteem. So when they told him Chʻai Yung was a man of talent he was
summoned. But he would not go. Cho sent a message to him that if he did
not come he and his whole clan should be exterminated. Then Chʻai gave
in and appeared. Cho was very gracious to him and promoted him thrice
in a month. He became a Shih-chung and seemed to be on most friendly
terms with the tyrant.
Meanwhile the deposed ruler, his mother and the Lady Tʻang were immured
in the palace and found their daily supplies gradually diminishing. The
deposed Emperor wept incessantly. One day a pair of swallows gliding to
and fro moved him to verse.
Spring! and the green of the tender grass,
Flushes with joy as the swallows pass;
The wayfarers pause by the rippling stream,
And their eyes with new born gladness gleam;
With lingering gaze the roofs I see
Of the palace that one time sheltered me.
The messenger, sent by Tung Cho from time to time to the palace for
news of the prisoners, got hold of this poem and showed it to his
master.
“So he shows his resentment by writing poems, eh! A fair excuse to put
them all out of the way,” said Tung.
Li Ju was sent with ten men into the palace to consummate the foul
deed. The three were in one of the upper rooms when he arrived. The
Emperor shuddered when the maid announced the visitor’s name.
Presently Li entered and offered a cup of poisoned wine to the Emperor.
The Emperor asked what this meant.
“Spring is the season of blending and harmonious interchange and the
Minister sends a cup of the wine of longevity,” said he.
“If it be the wine of longevity you may share it too; pledge me first,”
said the Empress.
Then Li became brutally frank.
“You will not drink!” cried he.
He called the men with daggers and cords and bade her look at them.
“The cup, or these?” said he.
Then said the Lady Tʻang, “Let the handmaiden drink in place of her
lord. Spare the mother and her son, I pray.”
“And who may you be to die for a prince?” said Li.
Then he presented the cup to the Empress once more and bade her drink.
She railed against her brother, the feckless Ho Chin, the author of all
this trouble. She would not drink.
Next Li approached the Emperor.
“Let me say farewell to my mother,” begged he, and he did so in these
lines:—
The heaven and earth are changed alas! the sun and the moon leave
their courses,
I, once the centre of all eyes, am driven to the farthest confines.
Oppressed by an arrogant minister my life nears its end,
Everything fails me and vain are my falling tears.
The Lady Tʻang sang:—
Heaven is to be rent asunder, Mother Earth to fall away;
I, handmaid of an Emperor, would grieve if I followed him not.
We have come to the parting of ways, the quick and the dead walk
not together;
Alas! I am left alone with the grief in my heart.
When they had sung these lines they fell weeping into each others’
arms.
“The minister is awaiting my report,” said Li, “and you delay too long.
Think you that there is any hope of succour?”
The Empress broke into another fit of railing.
“The rebel forces us to death, mother and son, and Heaven has abandoned
us. But you, the tool of his crime, will assuredly perish.”
Thereupon Li grew more angry, laid hands on the Empress and threw her
out of the window. Then he bade the soldiers strangle Lady Tʻang and
forced the lad to swallow the wine of death.
He reported the achievement of the cruel deed to his master who bade
them bury the victims without the city. After this Tung’s behaviour was
more atrocious than before. He spent his nights in the palace, defiled
the virgins there and even slept on the imperial couch.
Once he led his soldiers out of the city to Yangchʻêng when the
villagers, men and women, were assembled from all sides for the annual
festival. His men surrounded the place and plundered it. They took away
booty by the cart load, and women prisoners and a large number of
heads. The procession returned to the city and published a story that
they had obtained a great victory over some rebels. They burned the
heads beneath the walls and the women and jewellery were shared out
among the soldiers.
An officer named Wu Fou was disgusted at this ferocity and sought a
chance to slay the tyrant. He constantly wore a breastplate underneath
his court dress and carried concealed a sharp dagger. One day when Tung
came to court Fou met him on the steps and tried to stab him. But Cho
was a very powerful man and held him off till Lü Pu came to his help.
He struck down the assailant.
“Who told you to rebel?” said Tung.
Fou glared at him and cried, “You are not my prince, I am not your
minister: where is the rebellion? Your crimes fill the heavens and
every man would slay you. I am sorry I cannot tear you asunder with
chariots to appease the wrath of the world.”
Tung Cho bade them take him out and hack him to pieces. He only ceased
railing as he ceased to live.
Men praise Wu Fou, that loyal servant of the latter days of Han.
His valour was high as the Heavens, in all ages unequalled;
In the court itself would he slay the rebel, great is his fame!
Throughout all time will men call him a hero.
Thereafter Tung Cho always went well guarded.
At Pohai Yüan Shao heard of Tung Cho’s misuse of power and sent a
secret letter to Wang Yü.
“That rebel Cho outrages Heaven and has deposed his ruler. Men cannot
bear to speak of him. Yet you suffer his aggressions as if you knew
naught of them. How then are you a dutiful and loyal minister? I have
assembled an army and desire to sweep clean the royal habitation, but I
dare not lightly begin the task. If you are willing, then find an
opportunity to plot against this man. If you would use force I am at
your command.”
The letter arrived but Wang Yün could see no chance. One day while
among the throng in attendance, mostly men of long service, he said to
his colleagues, “This is my birthday, I pray you come to a little party
in my humble cot this evening.”
“We certainly will,” they cried, “and wish you long life.”
That night the tables were spread in an inner room and his friends
gathered there. When the wine had made a few rounds the host suddenly
covered his face and began to weep.
The guests were aghast.
“Sir, on your birthday too, why do you weep?” said they.
“It is not my birthday,” replied he. “But I wished to call you together
and I feared lest Tung Cho should suspect, so I made that the excuse.
This man insults the Emperor and does as he wishes so that the imperial
prerogatives are in imminent peril. I think of the days when our
illustrious founder destroyed Tsʻin, annihilated Chʻu and obtained the
Empire. Who could have foreseen this day when that Tung Cho has
subjugated all to his will? That is why I weep.”
Then they all wept with him.
Seated among the guests, however, was Tsʻao Tsʻao, who did not join in
the weeping but clapped his hands and laughed aloud.
“If all the officers of the government weep till dawn, and from dawn
weep till dark, will that slay Tung Cho?” said he.
His host turned on him angrily.
“Your forbears ate of the bounty of the Hans; do you feel no gratitude?
You can laugh?”
“I laughed at the absurdity of an assembly like this being unable to
compass the death of one man. Foolish and incapable as I am I will cut
off his head and hang it at the gate as an offering to the people.”
The host left his seat and went over to Tsʻao Tsʻao.
“These later days,” Tsʻao continued, “I have bowed my head to Tung Cho
with the sole desire of finding a chance to destroy him. Now he begins
to trust me and so I can approach him sometimes. You have a ‘seven
precious’ sword which I would borrow and I will go into his palace and
kill him. I care not if I die for it.”
“What good fortune for the world that this is so!” said the host.
With this he himself poured out a goblet for his guest who drained it
and swore an oath. After this the sword was brought out and given to
Tsʻao Tsʻao who hid it under his dress. He finished his wine, took
leave of the guests and left the hall. Before long the others
dispersed.
Soon after Tsʻao Tsʻao, with this short sword girded on, came to the
palace of the minister.
“Where is the minister?” asked he.
“In the small guest room,” replied the attendants.
So Tsʻao Tsʻao went in and found his host seated on a couch, Lü Pu was
at his side.
“Why so late, Mêng-tê?” said Tung Cho.
“My horse is out of condition and slow,” replied Tsʻao.
Cho turned to his henchman.
“Some good horses have come in from the west. You go and pick out a
good one as a present for him.” And Lü Pu left.
“He is doomed,” thought Tsʻao Tsʻao. He ought to have struck then, but
Tsʻao knew Cho was very powerful and he was afraid; he wanted to make
sure of his blow.
Now Tung Cho’s corpulence was such that he could not remain long
sitting, so he rolled over and lay face inwards. “Now is the time,”
thought the assassin, and he gripped the good sword firmly. But just as
he was going to strike, his victim happened to look up and in a mirror
he saw the reflection of Tsʻao Tsʻao behind him with a sword in his
hand.
“What are you doing, Mêng-tê?” said he turning suddenly. And at that
moment Lü Pu came along leading a horse.
Tsʻao Tsʻao in a flurry dropped on his knees and said, “I have a choice
sword here which I wish to present to Your Benevolence.”
Tung Cho took it. It was a fine blade, over a foot in length, inlaid
with the seven precious signs and very keen; a fine sword in very
truth. He handed the weapon to Lü Pu while Tsʻao Tsʻao took off the
sheath which he also gave to Lü Pu.
Then they went out to look at the horse. Tsʻao Tsʻao was profuse in his
thanks and said he would like to try him. So Cho bade them bring saddle
and bridle. Tsʻao led the creature outside, lept into the saddle, laid
on his whip vigorously and galloped away eastward.
Lü Pu said, “Just as I was coming up it seemed to me as if that fellow
was going to stab you, only a sudden panic seized him and he presented
the weapon instead.”
“I suspected him too,” said Cho. Just then Li Ju came in and they told
him.
“He has no family here but lodges quite alone and not far away,” said
he. “Send for him. If he comes forthwith the sword was meant as a gift,
but if he makes any excuses he had bad intentions. And you can arrest
him.”
They sent four prison warders to call Tsʻao Tsʻao. They were absent a
long time and then came back saying Tsʻao Tsʻao had not returned to his
lodging but had ridden in hot haste out of the eastern gate. To the
gate-warden’s questions he had replied that he was on a special message
for the minister. He had gone off at full speed.
“His conscience pricked him and so he fled; there is no doubt that he
meant assassination,” said Li Ju.
“And I trusted him so well!” said Tung Cho in a rage.
“There must be a conspiracy afoot: when we catch him we shall know all
about it,” said Li Ju.
Letters and pictures of the fugitive were sent everywhere with orders
to catch him. A large reward in money was offered and a patent of
nobility, while those who sheltered him would be held to share his
guilt.
Tsʻao Tsʻao travelled in hot haste toward Chʻiaochün. On the road at
Chungmou he was recognised by the guards at the gate and made prisoner.
They took him to the magistrate. Tsʻao declared he was a merchant,
named Huangfu. The magistrate scanned his face most closely and
remained in deep thought.
Presently he said, “When I was at the capital seeking a post I knew you
as Tsʻao Tsʻao, why do you try to conceal your identity?”
He ordered him to the prison till the morrow when he could be sent to
the capital and the reward claimed. He gave the soldiers wine and food
as a reward.
About midnight he sent a trusty servant to bring the prisoner into his
private rooms for interrogation.
“They say the Minister treated you well; why did you try to harm him?”
said he.
“How can swallows and sparrows understand the flight of the crane and
the wild goose? I am your prisoner and am to be sent to the capital for
a reward. Why so many questions?”
The official sent away the attendants and turning to the prisoner said,
“Do not despise me. I am no mere hireling, only I have not yet found
the lord to serve.”
Said Tsʻao Tsʻao, “My ancestors enjoyed the bounty of the Hans and
should I differ from a bird or a beast if I did not desire to repay
them with gratitude? I have bowed the knee to Tung Cho that thereby I
might find an opportunity against him, and so remove this evil from the
State. I have failed for this time. Such is the will of heaven.”
“And where are you going?”
“Home to my village. Thence I shall issue a summons calling all the
bold spirits to come with forces to kill the tyrant. This is my
desire.”
Thereupon the magistrate himself loosened the bonds of the prisoner,
led him to the upper seat and bowed saying, “I am called Chʻên Kung. My
aged mother and family are in the east. I am deeply affected by your
loyalty and uprightness and I will abandon my office and follow you.”
Tsʻao Tsʻao was delighted with this turn of affairs. The magistrate at
once collected some money for the expenses of their journey and gave
his prisoner a different dress. Then each took a sword and rode away
toward the home of Tsʻao. Three days later at eventide they reached
Chʻêngkao. Tsʻao Tsʻao pointed with his whip to a hamlet deep in the
woods and said, “There lives my uncle, Lü Po-shê, a sworn-brother of my
father. Suppose we go and ask news of my family and seek shelter for
the night?”
“Excellent!” said his companion and they rode over, dismounted at the
farm gate and entered.
Their host said, “I hear the government has sent stringent orders on
all sides to arrest you. Your father has gone into hiding to Chʻên Lu.
How has this all come about?”
Tsʻao Tsʻao told him and said, “Had it not been for this man here with
me I should have been already hacked to pieces.”
Po-shê bowed low to Chʻên Kung saying, “You are the salvation of the
Tsʻao family. But be at ease and rest, I will find you a bed in my
humble cottage.”
He then rose and went into the inner chamber where he stayed a long
time. When he came out, he said, “There is no good wine in the house, I
am going over to the village to get some for you.”
And he hastily mounted his donkey and rode away. The two travellers sat
a long time. Suddenly they heard at the back of the house the sound of
sharpening a knife.
Tsʻao Tsʻao said, “He is not my real uncle; I am beginning to doubt the
meaning of his going off. Let us listen.”
So they silently stepped out into a straw hut at the back. Presently
some one said, “Bind before killing, eh?”
“As I thought;” said Tsʻao Tsʻao, “now unless we strike first we shall
be taken.”
Suddenly they dashed in, sword in hand, and slew the whole household
male and female; in all eight persons.
After this they searched the house. In the kitchen they found a pig
bound ready to kill.
“You have made a huge mistake,” said Chʻên Kung, “and we have slain
honest folk.”
They at once mounted and rode away. Soon they met their host coming
home and over the saddle in front of him they saw two vessels of wine.
In his hands he carried fruit and vegetables.
“Why are you going, Sirs?” he called to them.
“Accused people dare not linger,” said Tsʻao.
“But I have bidden them kill a pig! Why do you refuse my poor
hospitality? I pray you ride back with me.”
Tsʻao Tsʻao paid no heed. Urging his horse forward he suddenly drew his
sword and rode after Lu.
“Who is that coming along?”
Lu turned and looked back and Tsʻao at the same instant cut him down.
His companion was frightened.
“You were wrong enough before,” cried he. “What now is this?”
“When he got home and saw his family killed, think you he would bear it
patiently? If he had raised an alarm and followed us we should have
been killed.”
“To kill deliberately is very wrong,” said Chʻên Kung.
“I would rather betray the world then let the world betray me,” was the
reply.
Chʻên Kung only thought. They rode on some distance by moonlight and
presently knocked up an inn for shelter. Having first fed their horses,
Tsʻao Tsʻao was soon asleep, but his companion lay thinking.
“I took him for a true man and left all to follow him, but he is cruel
as a wolf. If I spare him he will do more harm,” thought Chʻên.
And he rose intending to kill his companion.
In his heart lie cruelty and venom, he is no true man;
In nought doth he differ from his enemy Tung Cho.
The further fortunes of Tsʻao Tsʻao will be told in later chapters.