TSʻAO A-MAN ORGANISES A HUNTING EXPEDITION:
TUNG, “STATE UNCLE,” RECEIVES A COMMAND IN THE PALACE.
The last chapter said that Tsʻao Tsʻao was checked in his angry attack
upon Chang Liao. It was Liu Pei who held his arm and Kuan Yün-chʻang
who knelt before him.
“A man as generous-hearted as he is should be saved,” said Liu.
Kuan said, “I know him well as loyal and righteous. I will vouch for
him with my own life.”
Tsʻao threw aside his sword. “I also know Wên-yüan to be loyal and
good; I was just testing him,” said he.
He loosed the prisoner’s bonds with his own hands, had a change of
dress brought in and clothed him therewith. Then he was led to a seat
of honour. This kindly treatment sank deep into Chang’s heart and he
hastened to declare formally that he yielded. And then he was given a
rank and the title of marquis. He was sent on a mission to win over
Tsang Pa, who hearing what had happened, came forthwith and gave in his
submission. He was graciously received and his former colleagues also
yielded, with the exception of Chang Hsi, who remained obdurate. All
these former enemies who came over were kindly treated and given posts
of responsibility wherein they might prove the reality of their
conversion. Lü Pu’s family were sent to the capital.
After the soldiers had been rewarded with feastings the camp was broken
up and the army moved away to Hsütu. Passing through Hsüchou the people
lined the roads and burned incense in honour of the victors. They also
petitioned that Liu Pei should be their governor.
Tsʻao Tsʻao replied, “Liu Shih-chün has rendered great services. You
must wait till he has been received in audience and obtained his
reward. After that he shall be sent here.”
Chʻê Chou, a General of Cavalry, was given command of Hsüchou for the
moment. After the army had arrived at the capital rewards were granted
to all the officers who had been in the expedition. Liu Yüan-tê was
retained in the capital, lodging in an annexe to the Minister’s palace.
Soon after a Court was held and Tsʻao Tsʻao represented the services of
Yüan-tê who was presented to the Emperor Hsien. Dressed in Court robes
he bowed at the lower end of the audience arena. The Emperor called him
to the Hall and asked his ancestry.
Liu Pei replied, “Thy servant is the son of Liu Hung, grandson of Liu
Hsiung, who was a direct descendant of Prince Ching of Chungshan, who
was the great-great-grandson of His Majesty the Emperor Ching (about
150 B.C.)”
The Emperor bade them bring forth the Books of the Genealogies and
therefrom a secretary read: “The filial Emperor Ching begat fourteen
sons of whom the seventh was Liu Shêng, Prince Ching of Chungshan.
Shêng begat Chên, Marquis (Tʻing-hou) of Luchʻêng; Chên begat Ang,
Marquis Pʻei; Ang begat Lu, Marquis Chang; Lu begat Lien, Marquis of
Ishui; Lien begat Ying, Marquis of Chʻinyang; Ying begat Chien, Marquis
Ankuo; Chien begat Ai, Marquis Kuanglu; Ai begat Hsien, Marquis of
Chiaoshui; Hsien begat Hsü, Marquis of Tsuyi; Hsü begat I, Marquis of
Chʻiyang; I begat Pi, Marquis of Yüantsê; Pi begat Ta, Marquis of
Yingchʻuan; Ta begat Pu-i, Marquis of Fêngling; Pu-i begat Hui, Marquis
of Chichʻuan; Hui begat Hsiung, Governor of the Eastern Districts;
Hsiung begat Hung, who held no office or rank and Liu Pei is his son.”
The Emperor compared this with the registers of the Imperial House and
found by them that Liu Pei was his uncle by descent. He seemed greatly
pleased and requested Liu Pei to go into one of the side chambers where
he might perform the ceremonial obeisance prescribed for a nephew to
his uncle. In his heart he rejoiced to have this heroic warrior-uncle
as a powerful supporter against Tsʻao Tsʻao who really held all the
power in his own hands. The Emperor knew himself to be a mere puppet.
He conferred upon his uncle, the rank of General and the title of
Marquis of Ichʻêng.
When the banquet was concluded Yüan-tê thanked the Emperor and went out
of the palace. And from this time he was very generally styled Liu,
“Uncle of the Emperor.”
When Tsʻao Tsʻao returned to his palace Hsün Yü and his fellow advisers
went in to see him. Hsün Yü said, “It is no advantage to you,
Illustrious Sir, that the Emperor recognises Liu as an uncle.”
“He may be recognised as uncle, but he is under my orders since I
control the decrees of the throne. He will be all the more ready to
obey. Beside I will keep him here under the pretence of having him near
his sovereign and he will be entirely in my hands. I have nothing to
fear. The man I fear is Yang Piao, who is a relative of the two Yüans.
Should Yang conspire with them he is an enemy within and might do much
harm. He will have to be removed.”
Hence Tsʻao sent a secret emissary to say that Yang Piao was intriguing
with Yüan Shu and on this charge Piao was arrested and imprisoned. And
his death would have been compassed had his enemy dared.
But just then the Prefect of Pohai, Kʻung Jung, was at the capital and
he remonstrated with Tsʻao Tsʻao saying, “Yang comes from a family
famed for virtue for at least four generations; you cannot trump up so
foolish a charge as that against him.”
“It is the Court,” retorted Tsʻao.
“If Prince Chʻêng had put Duke Chao to death, could Duke Chou have
pretended ignorance?”
So Tsʻao had to relinquish the attempt, but he took away Yang’s offices
and banished him to his family estate in the country.
A certain Chao Yen, a minor official but an opponent of the Minister,
sent up a memorial impeaching Tsʻao for having removed a Minister of
State from office without a decree. Tsʻao’s reply to this was the
arrest of Chao and his execution, a bold stroke which terrified the
bulk of officers and reduced them to silence.
Chʻêng Yü advised Tsʻao to assume a more definite position. He said,
“Illustrious Sir, your prestige grows daily; why not seize the
opportunity to take the position of Chief of the Feudatory Princes?”
“There are still too many supporters of the Court,” was the reply. “I
must be careful. I am going to propose a royal hunt to try to find out
the best line to follow.”
This expedition being decided upon they got together fleet horses,
famous falcons and pedigree hounds, and prepared bows and arrows in
readiness. They mustered a strong force of guards outside the city.
When the Minister proposed the hunting expedition the Emperor said he
feared it was an improper thing to do.
Tsʻao replied, “In ancient times rulers made four expeditions yearly at
each of the four seasons in order to show their strength. They were
called Sou, Miao, Hsien and Shou, in the order of the seasons. Now that
the whole country is in confusion it would be wise to inaugurate a hunt
in order to train the army. I am sure Your Majesty will approve.”
So the Emperor with the full paraphernalia for an Imperial hunt joined
the expedition. He rode a saddle horse, carried an inlaid bow, and his
quiver was filled with gold-tipped arrows. His chariot followed behind.
The three brothers were in the Imperial train, each with his bow and
quiver. Each wore a breastplate under the outer robe and held his
especial weapon, while their escort followed them. Tsʻao Tsʻao rode a
dun horse called “Flying Lightning” and the army was ten legions
strong.
The hunt took place in Hsütʻien and the legions spread out as guards
round the hunting arena which extended over some two hundred square li.
Tsʻao Tsʻao rode even with the Emperor, the horses’ heads alternating
in the lead. The imperial suite immediately following were all in
Tsʻao’s confidence. The other officers, civil and military, lagged
behind, for who dared press forward into the midst of Tsʻao’s
partizans?
One day the Emperor was riding near Hsütʻien and noticed his newly
found uncle respectfully standing by the roadside.
“I should like to see my uncle display his hunting skill,” said the
Emperor.
Liu Pei mounted his steed at once. Just then a hare started from its
form; Yüan-tê shot and hit it with the first arrow.
The Emperor, much struck by this display, rode away over a slope.
Suddenly a deer broke out of the thicket. He shot three arrows at it
but all missed.
“You try,” said the Emperor turning to Tsʻao.
“Lend me Your Majesty’s bow,” he replied, and taking the inlaid bow and
the golden-barbed arrows he pulled the bow and hit the deer in the
shoulder at the first shot. It fell in the grass and could not run.
Now the crowd of officers seeing the golden-barbed arrow sticking in
the wound concluded at once that the shot was the Emperor’s, so they
rushed up and shouted “Wansui! O King, live for ever!” Tsʻao Tsʻao rode
out pushing past the Emperor and acknowledged the congratulations.
They all turned pale. What did this mean? Liu Pei’s brother Kuan who
was behind him was especially angry. The sleeping caterpillar eyebrows
stood up fiercely and the red phoenix eyes glared as, sword in hand, he
rode hastily forth to cut down the audacious Minister for his
impertinence. However, his elder brother hastily waved him back and
shot at him a meaning glance so that he stopped and made no further
move.
Yüan-tê bowing toward Tsʻao said, “Most sincere felicitations! A truly
supernatural shot, such as few have achieved!”
“It is only the enormous good fortune of the Son of Heaven!” said Tsʻao
with a smile.
Then he turned his steed and felicitated the Emperor. But he did not
return the bow; he hung it over his own shoulder instead.
The hunt finished with banqueting and when the entertainments were over
they returned to the capital, all glad of some repose after the
expedition. Kuan Yü was still full of the Minister’s breach of decorum.
One day he said, “Brother, why did you prevent me from killing that
rebel and so ridding the world of a scoundrel? He insults the Emperor
and ignores everybody else.”
“When you throw stones at a rat, beware of the vase,” quoted Yüan-tê.
“Tsʻao Tsʻao was only a horse’s head away from Our Lord and in the
midst of a crowd of his partizans. In that momentary burst of anger, if
you had struck and failed, and harm had come to the Emperor, what an
awful crime would have been laid to us!”
“If we do not rid the world of him to-day, a worse evil will come of
it,” said Kuan.
“But be discreet, my brother. Such matters cannot be lightly
discussed.”
The Emperor sadly returned to his palace. With tears in his eyes he
related what had occurred in the hunt to his consort the Empress Fu.
“Alas for me!” said he. “From the first days of my accession one
vicious minister has succeeded another. I was the victim of Tung Cho’s
evil machinations; then followed the rebellion of Li Tsʻui and Kuo Ssŭ.
You and I had to bear sorrows such as no others have borne. Then came
this Tsʻao Tsʻao as one who would maintain the imperial dignity, but he
has seized upon all real authority and does as he wishes. He works
continually for his own glorification and I never see him but my back
pricks. These last few days in the hunting field he went in front of me
and acknowledged the cheers of the crowd. He is so extremely rude that
I feel sure he has sinister designs against me. Alas, my wife, we know
not when our end may come!”
“In a whole Court full of nobles who have eaten the bread of Han, is
there not one who will save his country?” said she.
Thus spake the Empress, and at the same moment there stepped in a man
who said, “Grieve not, O Imperial Pair! I can find a saviour for the
country.”
And who was this? It was none other than the father of the Empress, Fu
Wan.
“Have you heard of Tsʻao Tsʻao’s wanton and perverse behaviour?” said
the Emperor, drying his eyes.
“You mean the deer shooting? Who did not see that indeed? But the whole
Court is full of his clan or his creatures. With the exception of the
relatives of your Consort there is not one loyal enough to deal with a
rebel. I have no authority and can do nothing, but there is General
Tung Chʻêng, the State Uncle, who could do it.”
“Could Uncle Tung come in to consult about this? I know he has had much
experience of State troubles.”
Wan replied, “Every one of your attendants is a partizan of Tsʻao’s and
this sort of thing must be kept most profoundly secret or the
consequence will be most serious.”
“Then what can be done?” said the Emperor.
“The only plan I can think of is to send gifts of a robe and a jade
girdle to Tung, and in the lining of the girdle hide a secret edict
authorising him to take certain steps. When he gets home and has read
the edict he can elaborate plans as quickly as possible and neither the
spirits above nor the demons below will know anything about them.”
The Emperor approved and Fu Wan went out. The Emperor then with his own
hand drew up a decree, writing it with blood drawn by biting his
finger. He gave the document to his consort to sew into the purple
lining of the girdle. When all was done he put on the robe and girded
it with the girdle. Next he bade one of the attendants summon Uncle
Tung to the palace.
Tung Chʻêng came and after the ceremonies were finished the Emperor
said, “A few nights ago I was talking with the Empress of the terrible
days of the rebellion and we thought of your good services then,
therefore we have called you in to reward you.”
The minister bowed his head in thanks. Then the Emperor led Tung out of
the Reception Hall to the Tʻai Miao or Temple of Ancestors, and they
went to the gallery of Worthy Ministers, where the Emperor burned
incense and performed the usual ceremonies. After this they went to see
the portraits and among them was one of the Founder of the Dynasty, Han
Kao-Tsu.
“Whence sprang our great ancestor and how did he begin his great
achievement?” said the Emperor.
“Your Majesty is pleased to joke with thy servant,” said Tung Chʻêng,
rather startled at the question. “Who does not know the deeds of the
Sacred Ancestor? He began life as a minor official in Ssŭshang. There
gripping his sword he slew the White Serpent, the beginning of his
struggle for the right. Speedily he mastered the Empire; in three years
had destroyed Tsʻin and, in five, also Chʻu. Thus he set up a Dynasty
that shall endure for ever.”
“Such heroic forefathers! such weakling descendants! How sad it is!”
said the Emperor.
Pointing to the portraits right and left he continued, “Are not these
two Chang Liang, Marquis Liu, and Hsiao Ho, Marquis Tsʻuan?”
“Certainly. Your great ancestor was greatly assisted by these two.”
The Emperor glanced right and left. His attendants were rather far
away. Then he whispered to Tung Chʻêng, “You, like these two, must
stand by me.”
“My poor services are of no worth; I do not compare with those men,”
said the Uncle.
“I remember that you saved me at the western capital. I have never
forgotten and I could never reward you.” Then pointing to his own robe
the Emperor continued, “You must wear this robe of mine, girded with my
own girdle, and it will be as though you are always near your Emperor.”
Tung Chʻêng bowed his gratitude while the Emperor, taking off the robe,
presented it to his faithful Minister. At the same time he whispered,
“Examine it closely when you get home, and help your Emperor carry out
his intention.”
Tung Chʻêng understood. He put on the robe and the girdle, took leave
and left the chamber.
The news of the audience for Tung Chʻêng had been taken to the
Minister, who at once went to the Palace and arrived as Tung Chʻêng was
passing out at the gate. They met face to face and Tung Chʻêng could in
nowise avoid him. He went to the side of the road and made his
obeisance.
“Where are you from, State Uncle?” asked Tsʻao Tsʻao.
“His Majesty summoned me into the Palace and has given me this robe and
beautiful girdle.”
“Why did he give you these?”
“He had not forgotten that I saved his life in the old days.”
“Take it off and let me see it.”
Tung Chʻêng who knew that a secret decree was hidden away somewhere in
the garments was afraid Tsʻao Tsʻao would notice a breach somewhere in
the material, so he hesitated and did not obey. But the tyrant called
his servants. So he took off the girdle. Then Tsʻao looked it over
carefully. “It certainly is a very handsome girdle,” said he. “Now take
off the robe and let me look at that.”
Tung Chʻêng’s heart was melting with fear but he dared not disobey. So
he handed over the robe. Tsʻao took it and held it up against the sun
with his own hand and minutely examined every part of it. When he had
done this he put it on, girded it with the girdle and turning to his
suite said, “How is it for length?”
“Beautiful!” they chorussed.
Turning to Tung Chʻêng he said, “Will you give these to me?”
“My King’s presents to me I dare not give to another. Let me give you
another robe in its stead,” said Tung.
“Is there not some intrigue connected with these presents? I am sure
there is,” said Tsʻao.
“How could I dare?” said Tung, trembling. “If you are so set upon it
then I must give it up.”
“How could I take away what your King has given you? It was all a
joke,” said the Minister.
He returned both robe and girdle and their owner made the best of his
way home. When night came and he was alone in his library, he took out
the robe and looked over every inch of it most carefully. He found
nothing.
“He gave me a robe and a girdle and bade me look at them carefully.
That means there is something to be looked for but I can find no trace
of it. What does it mean?” he soliloquised.
Then he lifted the girdle and examined that. The jade plates were
carved into the semblance of small dragons interlaced among flowers.
The lining was of purple silk. All was sewn together most carefully and
neatly and he could find nothing out of the common. He was puzzled. He
laid the belt on the table. Presently he picked it up and looked at it
again. He spent long hours over it but in vain. He leaned over on the
small table, his head resting on his hands and was almost asleep, when
a candle snuff fell down upon the girdle and burned a hole in the
lining. He hastily shook it off, but the mischief was done: a small
hole had been burned in the silken lining, and through this there
appeared something white with blood red marks. He hastily ripped it
open and drew out the decree written by the hand of the Emperor himself
in characters of blood.
It read, “Of human relationships, that between father and son stands
first; of the various social ties that between Prince and Minister
stands highest. To-day Tsʻao Tsʻao, the wicked, is a real tyrant,
treating even his Prince with indignity. With the support of his
faction and his army he has destroyed the principles of government. By
conferring rewards and inflicting punishments he has reduced the
Emperor to a nonentity. I have grieved over this day and night. I have
feared the Empire would be ruined.
“You are a high Minister of State and my own relative. You must recall
the difficulties of the great Founder’s early days and draw together
the loyal and right-minded to destroy this evil faction and restore the
prerogatives of the Throne. Such a deed would be indeed an extreme joy
to the spirits of my ancestors.
“This decree, written in blood drawn from my own veins, is confided to
a noble who is to be most careful not to fail in executing his
Emperor’s design.
“Given in the era Established Tranquillity, fourth year and the third
month of Spring.”
So ran the decree and Tung Chʻêng read it with streaming eyes. There
was no sleep for him that night. Early in the morning he returned to
his library and re-read it. No plan suggested itself. He laid the
decree down on the table and sought in the depths of his mind for some
scheme to destroy Tsʻao Tsʻao, but could not decide upon any. And he
fell asleep leaning over his table.
It happened that a certain official, Wang Tzŭ-fu, with whom he was on
terms of great intimacy, came to visit him and, as usual, walked into
the house unannounced and went straight to the library. His host did
not wake and Wang noticed, hardly hidden by his sleeve, the Emperor’s
writing. Wondering what this might be he drew it out, read it and put
it in his own sleeve. Then he called out loud, “Uncle Chʻêng, are you
not well? Why are you asleep at this time of day?”
Tung Chʻêng started up and at once missed the decree. He was aghast; he
almost fell to the ground.
“So you want to make away with Tsʻao Tsʻao? I shall have to tell him,”
said Wang.
“Then, brother, that is the end of the Hans,” said his host, with
tears.
“I was joking,” said Wang. “My forefathers also served the Hans and ate
of their bounty. Am I devoid of loyalty? I would help you, brother, as
far as lies in my power.”
“It is well for the country that you think like this,” said Tung.
“But we ought to have a more private place than this to talk over such
plans and pledge ourselves to sacrifice all in the cause of Han.”
Tung Chʻêng began to feel very satisfied. He produced a roll of white
silk and wrote his own name at the top and signed it, and Wang followed
suit. Then the visitor said, “General Wu Tzŭ-lan is one of my best
friends, he ought to be allowed to come in.”
Chʻêng replied, “Of all the officials of the Court Chʻung Chi and Wu
Shih are my best friends. Certainly they would back me up.”
So the discussion proceeded. Presently a servant announced no other
than these very two men.
“This is providential,” said Tung Chʻêng and he told his friend to hide
behind a screen.
The two guests were led into the library and after the exchange of the
ordinary civilities and a cup of tea, Chʻung Chi referred to the
incident at the hunt and the shooting of the stag. “Were you not angry
at that?” said he.
Tung Chʻêng answered, “Though we be angry, what can we do?”
Wu Shih struck in, “I would slay this fellow, I swear, but I cannot get
any one to back me up.”
“Though one should perish for one’s country one should not mind,” said
Chʻung Chi.
At this moment Wang Tzŭ-fu appeared from behind the screen, saying,
“You two want to kill Tsʻao! I shall have to let him know this. And
Uncle Tung is my witness.”
“A loyal Minister does not mind death. If we are killed we will be Han
ghosts, which is better than being sycophants of a traitor.”
Tung Chʻêng said, “We were just saying we wanted to see you two on this
matter. Wang is only joking.”
Then he drew forth the decree and showed it to the two new-comers, who
also wept as they read it. They were asked to add their names.
Tzŭ-fu said, “Wait here a few moments till I get Wu Tzŭ-lan to come.”
He left the room and very soon returned with his friend, who also wrote
his name in the presence of all the others.
After this they went into one of the inner chambers to drink success to
the new plot. While there a new visitor, Ma Tʻêng, Prefect of Hsiliang,
was announced.
“Say I am indisposed,” said the host, “and cannot receive visitors.”
The doorkeeper took the message, whereat Ma angrily said, “Last night
at the Tunghua Gate I saw him come out in robe and girdle. How can he
pretend illness to-day? I am not come from mere idleness, why does he
refuse to see me?”
The doorkeeper went in again and told his master what the visitor had
said and that he was very angry. Then Chʻêng rose, excused himself
saying he would soon return, and went to receive Ma Tʻêng. After the
visitor had saluted and they were both seated, he said, “I have just
come from a farewell audience and wished to bid you adieu. Why did you
want to put me off?”
“My poor body was taken suddenly ill; that is why I was not waiting to
welcome you,” said Chʻêng.
“You do not look as if you were ill; your face wears the very bloom of
health,” said Tʻêng bluntly.
His host could say no more and was silent. The visitor shook out his
sleeves and rose to depart. He sighed deeply as he walked down the
steps, saying to himself, “Not one of them is any good: there is no one
to save the country.”
This speech sank deeply into Tung Chʻêng’s heart. He stopped his guest,
saying, “Who is no good to save the country? Whom do you mean?”
“That incident at the hunt the other day, the shooting of the stag,
filled my breast with anger. But if you, a near relative of the
Emperor, can pass your time in wine and idle dalliance without a
thought of doing away with rebellion, where can any one be found who
will save the dynasty?”
However, Tung Chʻêng’s doubts were not set at rest. Pretending great
surprise he replied, “The Minister is of high rank and has the
confidence of the Court: why then does he utter such things?”
“So you find that wretch Tsʻao a good man, eh?”
“Pray speak lower: there are eyes and ears very near us.”
“The sort of people who covet life and fear death are not those to
discuss any great undertaking.”
So saying he rose to go away. By this time his host’s doubts were set
at rest: he felt that Ma Tʻêng was loyal and patriotic. So he said, “Do
not be angry any more. I will show you something.”
Whereupon he invited Ma Tʻêng to go into the room where the others were
seated and then showed him the decree. As Ma read it his hair stood on
end, he ground his teeth and bit his lips till the blood came.
“When you move, remember the whole force of my army is ready to help,”
said he.
Tung Chʻêng introduced him to the other conspirators and then the
pledge was produced and Ma Tʻêng was told to sign his name. He did so,
at the same time smearing the blood as a sign of the oath and saying,
“I swear to die rather than betray this pledge.”
Pointing to the five he said, “We require ten for this business and we
can accomplish our design.”
“We cannot get many true and loyal men. One of the wrong sort will
spoil all,” said Tung Chʻêng.
Ma Tʻêng told them to bring in the list of officials. He read on till
he came to the name Liu, of the Imperial clan, when clapping his hands
he cried, “Why not consult him?”
“Whom?” cried they altogether.
Ma Tʻêng very slowly and deliberately spoke his name.
To a very trusty servant comes an Emperor’s decree,
And a scion of the ruling house can prove his loyalty.
If the reader turns to the next chapter he will see who was Ma Tʻêng’s
hero.