THE MARCH INTO MANCHURIA.
FENG-HOANG-CHENG.
“The merciful man has no enemies.” This was the legend that met the
eye of General Kuroki when he dismounted to receive the welcome of the
Governor of Feng-hoang-cheng. Despite the cyclones of passion that
sweep over this Empire the Chinese are no lovers of brute force. The
Confucian doctrine of life which has dominated China for two thousand
five hundred years does not tend to develop the aggressive virtues,
and this legend, inscribed in crimson upon a scroll of white silk,
represents the attitude of the Chinaman toward all matters that do not
appear to touch his rights or his dignity. The Chinese are punctilious
in the discharge of all the obligations of courtesy, and their greeting
of the victorious soldier was marked with a kindliness, a dignity and
an æsthetic taste of which I found evidences in every direction and
among all classes. The scene was more strange than impressive. Upon
the dusty plain, which stretches before the city down to the bank of
the shallow river, was assembled a crowd of civilians and soldiers and
officials. Under a rude pavilion, draped with crimson and adorned with
the motto “The merciful man has no enemies,” sat the Governors of the
Province, the city and the garrison, with others who were in authority
over the people. Their loose surcoats were of many colours--deep
violet, and crimson and blue, and the sheen of their silken garments
was lustrous in the brilliant sunshine. They sat by the roadside after
the manner of the East. In the dark shadow of brick walls lounged
soldiers whose dress differed little from that of the civilian--a loose
robe of indigo blue and a pair of wide trousers ending in a pair of
felt shoes.
[Illustration: City Wall, Feng-Huang-Cheng.]
[Illustration: A Street Scene, Feng-Huang-Cheng.]
The Manchu soldier is not a martial figure. He is without discipline
or organisation, and in the guard of honour I noted that nearly every
man had a different arm from his fellow; one an old carbine, another a
muzzle loader, a third a Winchester, a fourth a Mauser. Moreover he is
indolent and wanting in intelligence and is addicted to opium. There
is a rule excluding opium smokers from the ranks, but you have only to
look at officers and men to know that nine out of ten are victims to
this destructive habit. Its calls are imperious and unless they are
obeyed the men collapse. In the Japanese war, I am told, the Manchu
troops halted to smoke, no matter how pressing the urgency. Near the
river were more soldiers and officers in scarlet surcoats, and straw
hats shaped liked cones, that come well over the face. With these
were the colours--great banners of white silk with crimson characters
denoting the regiments. The Governor invited us to be seated in the
pavilion, but we choose to mingle with the crowd, who greeted us
with the word “Ingwa” or “Englishman.” We were curiosities in their
eyes--the Governor of the city afterwards told me that he had never
seen an Englishman before--and our clothes were examined with interest.
Presently there was a movement in the ranks; the soldiers rose and
left their shelter under the walls; the guard of honour stood at
attention on each side of the road; the banners were unfurled; and
four trumpeters in yellow jackets blew a fanfare. General Kuroki and
his Staff appeared on the far bank of the river. As they rode through
the shallow stream the banners waved; the trumpets sounded, and the
guard presented arms. At the pavilion they dismounted and were received
by the Chinese authorities, the Taotai or Intendent of the Eastern
Marshes speaking a few words which, I was told, were distinguished by
the grace and good breeding in which these people excel. Cards were
exchanged--long strips of crimson paper with the names in black--and
the General and his Staff were invited to enter the pavilion. General
Kuroki offered the place of honour to Prince Kuni, but he refused to
supercede the Commander-in-chief who accordingly seated himself in the
centre of the bench at a table spread with sweet cakes. Tea was served
with due ceremony, and the General and his Staff rode away amid bows
and music and waving of flags that set the horses prancing.
Feng-hoang-cheng is about thirty miles, or two days’ march from Antung.
We left the treaty port on Wednesday the 11th, and halted for the
night at Tang-chan-cheng which is midway on the Imperial Pekin Road.
Crossing the ridge that forms the Northern boundary of the river Yalu,
we descended into a broad valley shut in by mountains. The land is
rich and well cultivated, and on every side were the charred ruins of
substantial homesteads. The Russians in their retreat had set fire to
every building and but for their haste would have given Antung to the
flames. This destruction of private property was wanton and senseless
and had not even the pretext of being directed against combatants. In
this two days’ journey I saw more ruined houses than in six months’
trek in the Transvaal, and I wondered if the Continent of Europe
would be as deeply agitated over these acts of war against a harmless
and peaceful peasantry as they were over the firing of houses used
as trenches with the white flag over them. Away to the East of this
desolated valley rose a range of hills dominated by a mountain that
springs from the plain like a huge knife with the edge of the blade
toward the sky. The summit is sharp and precipitous and the slopes are
dark and rugged. It was near this razor-like ridge that the Russian
guns were lost and a regiment was decimated.
It is said that the Chinese care nothing for the provinces of
Manchuria. They form no part of the Eighteen Provinces which fill the
Chinaman’s conception of his native land, though they gave birth to the
ruling dynasty. This indifference may be real and may account for the
ease with which the Russians have overrun the country: yet Manchuria is
a land worth fighting for. It covers an area of 336,000 square miles:
it produces grain of all kinds, vegetables in plenty, tobacco, hemp,
indigo, and opium; silk culture flourishes in the South: the forests
and mountains supply skins, furs, and timber: on the Eastern steppes
sheep, cattle, and horses are reared in inexhaustible numbers: gold
is found in the North and along the Eastern frontier to the Upper
Sungari in the South: the climate is good, though somewhat rigorous:
and the inhabitants are a fine, hardy, industrious people, much more
friendly toward foreigners than the people of China proper. And it is
a beautiful country, with rich valleys, clear streams, and mountains
clothed with forests of pine and oak. Our camp at Tan-chan-cheng was
pitched in an orchard, and pear blossoms fell upon our tents like
flakes of snow. The homestead was foul and neglected: the farmer and
his family were dirty and indifferent to comfort, yet the fields were
carefully cultivated and there were evidences of abundant prosperity.
Next morning we resumed our march along the bank of an affluent of the
river Tsao, which stream the Imperial Pekin Road follows northward to
the Mou-tien-ling pass. The country is mountainous and the river winds
among hills clothed with emerald green woods. A plain brought us to
Kao-li-men, where the mountains converge to form a broad pass guarded
by a conical hill. Kao-li-men is known as the Gate of Korea and through
this pass ran the willow palisade which marked the Chinese possessions
in Manchuria when the Ming dynasty occupied the throne.
This palisade, which for two hundred and ninety miles is still the
frontier of Manchuria, enclosed the fringe of the Western coast of the
Gulf of Liao-tung, and the valley of the Lower Liao river, reaching its
most Northerly point at Wei-yuan-pu-men, eighty miles to the North of
Mukden, on the Imperial Pekin Road. Bending South-east and South from
this gate the palisade ran through Kao-li-men and rested its flank
on the Yellow Sea. The country within the pale was formerly known as
Liao-tung and Liao-hsi, that is, the territory East and West of the
Liao river. I am told that the gates and traces of the fence exist to
this day, but I looked in vain. The only evidence I could discover was
in the termination of the name Kao-li-men, for “men” means “gate.”
Outside the pale, inhabiting the mountains and forests, were clans,
half Mongol, half Tungusian--a race of mighty hunters who lived by
the chase. As many of the names of places show, a great part of the
Southern province of Manchuria was at one time Korean.
When we crossed the Yalu there was a report that the Russians would
make a determined stand at Kao-li-men. The country is well adapted to
defensive tactics. An enemy advancing from the South must pass over
open ground and through defiles commanded on both sides by hills, and
the approach to the Gate of Korea is dominated by a semi-circular
range. The strategic weakness of the position--like that held by the
Russians on the Yalu--was the want of lateral lines of communication,
and the fact that the Pekin Road, which is the only communication
to the North, is open to flank attack. However, it was clear that
the Russians had contemplated holding this pass. The roads in the
neighbourhood of Kao-li-men were entrenched, and the trenches were deep
and better made than the primitive death traps on the Yalu. But they
had evidently changed their minds and fallen back upon Liao-yang, a
position of greater strength and strategic importance. Our progress to
Feng-hoang-cheng was accordingly uninterrupted, and we rode leisurely
along the bank of the river, over cultivated plains and in the shadow
of green hills.
Feng-hoang-cheng is situated on the plain in the apex of an angle
of hills, one side of which extends towards Antung and the other
South-west in the direction of Ta-kou-chan. It is the only town on the
Pekin Road between Liao-yang and the coast, and has a population of
twenty thousand peasants and small traders. Like most Chinese towns,
Feng-hoang-cheng consists of compact rows of one-storied houses and
shops with tiled roofs. The streets are unpaved and fairly wide, and
the general aspect is dingy and poor. At the Northern end of the town,
where the hills begin to converge, is a walled enclosure three or four
hundred yards square, within which dwell the Governor and officials--a
small village, shut in by brick walls eighteen feet high and three
feet in thickness. No architectural feature relieves the dull level of
one-storied buildings, and no touch of colour stands out of the drab
dinginess.
The Intendent of the Eastern Marshes is a man of consequence. He is
responsible for the administration of one of the three Provinces that
occupy the North-east corner of the Chinese Empire. His capital is
Feng-hoang-cheng--a city with a record of two thousand years--and his
province of Feng-tien has an area of fifty-five thousand square miles.
The importance of this district is to be measured at the moment not by
its extent or by the undoubted richness of its soil but by its position
on the map. Feng-t’ien borders on Korea, on the Yellow Sea and on the
Gulf of Liao-tung. It was, therefore, in the heart of the war and among
its mountains and valleys would be determined the fate of Manchuria.
Before I called upon the Intendent I learned a few elementary facts of
the elaborate system of the Chinese civil service with its checks and
balances. There are three Governors in this Province, and though their
authority and duties differ, each exercises a moderating influence on
the other. The Military Governor is, of course, a Manchu, and commands
the Manchu soldiers or bannermen, of whom nearly eighteen thousand are
stationed in the province, four thousand six hundred being “foreign”
drilled.
Being of the race from which sprang the ancestors of the reigning
dynasty the Military Governor ranks first in the administrative
hierarchy. His powers, however, are limited, and he serves only as a
visible sign of the predominance of the Manchu race. After him ranks
the Taotai, known as Tung-pien-tao, or Intendent of the Marshes,
whose authority is wider and more real, and under him again is the
Governor of the City with duties more defined and circumscribed. When
he is master in his own house the Intendent lives within the citadel
or walled enclosure. The necessities of General Kuroki’s Staff have
banished him for a time beyond these brick walls, which have only the
semblance of strength, despite their iron crusted doors and deep gates.
In a dusty forecourt, the entrance to which was guarded by a Japanese
sentry, was a stand of colours denoting the presence of the Governor
of the Province. Passing through a small apartment draped with crimson
cloth I came to an inner court and the seat of justice. Here, in
a crimson-draped alcove were a crimson chair and table. Upon the
table were several narrow wooden boxes, in which stood wooden labels
inscribed in Chinese characters, and at one end encased in yellow
cloth was something that looked like a triple crown. The labels were
tablets stating the nature of the punishment inflicted on criminals--a
space being left for the judge to write the number of strokes or other
directions--and the crown was a casket containing the official seals.
While these mysteries were being explained for my instruction, the
Governor appeared and invited me to enter a room adjoining the seat of
justice.
Chang-shi-lam is a man of commanding presence, tall and graceful
of figure in his robes of black silk, with a face of the keenest
intelligence--strong, mobile, and pleasant to look upon. Dressed in
European clothes he might easily have passed for a well-bred and
cultured Englishman. He received me with a smile, and we took our seats
at a round table, over which hung a cheap paraffin lamp of European or
American ugliness, and on which were cigars and cigarettes of Japanese
make. Conversation was difficult, for it had to be conducted through
two interpreters--first into Japanese, and then into English--but so
keen and responsive was Chang-shi-lam that after the usual compliments
we found ourselves engaged in most animated talk. The face of the
Governor was as expressive as that of an accomplished actor, and his
dark eyes lighted up with eloquence as he spoke of the war and the
condition of his people. Twenty years ago Chang-shi-lam was appointed
Governor of this province, but in the interval he has filled other
offices, and had returned to Feng-hoang-cheng only within the last
six months. He is evidently a man in whom the Central Government have
confidence, for they have placed him in a very difficult and delicate
position. I began by speaking of the satisfaction it must give him to
see the people ploughing the land and conducting themselves as if war
was far removed from the province.
“Yes,” he replied, “the attitude of the people toward the Japanese is
altogether different. The Russians took our goods, our horses and our
mules, paying nothing for them or only half the price at which they
were valued. It may be that the needs of the two armies are different,
but at least the Japanese pay for what they take and leave us the means
of ploughing the land.”
The Governor spoke without bitterness, ascribing this difference in
treatment to the pressing needs of the Russian army. I asked if they
had done much damage to the town.
“No,” was the answer. “Before they retired they wanted to set fire to
the stores, but the people implored them to spare the buildings and
undertook to bring out the stores so that they might be destroyed.
While this work was in progress report came that the Japanese were
at hand and the Russians fled, leaving behind many things, including
winter clothing and ammunition.”
“How long was the column that passed through here after the passage of
the Yalu?”
“The head of the retreating army entered the town at four o’clock in
the afternoon and marched without a break until three o’clock on the
following afternoon. A few hundred stayed behind to destroy the stores
but went away very quickly.”
From the war we passed to the history of the city.
“Its records go back two thousand years,” said the Governor. “In those
days the country hereabout formed part of Korea, as many of the names
indicate. There is a tradition that Feng-hoang-cheng once sheltered a
Chinese Emperor, but it is only a tradition. If you go into the hills,
however, you will find many tablets of stone recording the visits of
men famous in letters and in war. The country is very beautiful though
it contains few things that would interest the archæologist beyond the
traces of the willow palisade.”
I spoke of the condition of the people.
“They are very poor and very ignorant,” replied Chang-shi-lam. “Few
of them would know what that is”--taking up a box of matches from the
table--“and they would not know what to do with these”--pointing to
the cigarettes and cigars. “Beyond tilling the ground they have no
industries, unless you take into account the culture of wild silk. When
I was Governor here twenty years ago I encouraged the people to go into
the hills and cultivate the ‘wild’ silk. It is now worth from twenty
to thirty thousand pounds a year, and brings us into trading relations
with the port of Antung.”
“And your people,” I asked, “are they well-behaved? Have you many
offenders to receive the punishment written on the tablets?”
The answer may appear strange, yet it reveals the attitude of the
Chinese toward Western civilisation, and shows their supreme contempt
for our commercial ideals. The Chinese recognise four grades in the
social scale--scholars, farmers, labourers and merchants, and it was in
this order that the Governor spoke of the conduct of the people.
“Our farmers give no trouble; they are content with tilling the soil
and reaping the harvest. The labourers have employment, and are
satisfied with little. We have some small traders and shopkeepers, but
we have few serious offences to punish.”
There, I believe, you have the real opinion of the Chinese official
on the subject of trade. The “shang,” or merchant, as in Japan, is
at the very bottom of the social scale--a parasite, who adds nothing
to the common wealth, but exists on the labour and needs of others.
I was the more surprised to have this quick revelation from a man of
the character and intellect of the Intendent of the Eastern Marshes,
because when in acknowledgment of his courtesy I offered to submit
myself to cross-examination, he spoke eloquently of the wide difference
between European and Chinese civilisation.
“It is twenty years,” he said, “since I spoke with an Englishman in
Feng-hoang-cheng, and I have never been beyond the borders of China.
I have, however, read the diaries of many of my friends who have
visited England, and I am aware how far in advance is the civilisation
of Europe. I hope that in time we may make some progress in the
same direction. We entertain for England and her people sentiments
of gratitude and friendship. The English were the first to establish
schools in Pekin, and to teach us something of Western thought and
achievement. They taught us also how to regulate our trade and how to
collect our Custom dues; and we learned from them something of the
training of soldiers. We have tried to imitate you, but we are still
far behind, though not without hope.”
I am aware that language of this kind on the lips of an Oriental is
nothing more than the compliment which good breeding dictates; but
Chang-shi-lam spoke with such convincing earnestness, his face was so
instinct with intelligence, and his eyes had such a look of mournful
contemplation that I am disposed to count him among those progressive
Chinamen who are not wrapped up in that impenetrable conceit which
excludes the very notion of reform. In reply to his compliments I
observed that we must become even better friends as our civilisation
grew more alike, though we could not but venerate a civilisation which
had given Confucius to the world, and had produced so many men of
learning. Before taking leave of the Governor I expressed the hope that
he and his people would soon be able to live in peace.
“Yes,” he answered, “I hope the contest will end quickly, and that the
fate of Manchuria will be determined once for all.”
The Governor rose and escorted me to the outer court through a group of
retainers, whose faces had crowded the doorway during our interview,
and who had busied themselves by filling the teacups. As I was saying
Good-bye this courtly and distinguished-looking gentleman betrayed the
first sign of curiosity. He took my Panama hat and examined it with
eyes and fingers expressing wonder that straw or fibre could be woven
so fine. But for that little lapse I might have felt that I was taking
leave of a cardinal in the Vatican or some priestly chancellor in the
mediæval days.