EVENTS LEADING TO THE JAPANESE INVASION.
China and Japan are to each other as England and the United States. The
staid Chinaman looks at the lively Japanese with feelings similar to
those of John Bull to his American “cousin.” Though as radically
different in blood, language, and temperament as are the Germans and
French, they are enough alike to find food for mutual jealousy. They
discover ground for irritation in causes, which, between nations more
distant from each other, would stir up no feeling whatever. China
considers Japan a young, vain, and boasting stripling, whose attitude
ought ever to be that of the pupil to the teacher, or the child to the
father. Japan, on the contrary, considering China as an old fogy, far
behind the age, decayed in constitution and fortune alike, and more
than ready for the grave, resents all dictation or assumption of
superiority. Even before their adoption of the forces of occidental
civilization in this nineteenth century, something of this haughty
contempt for China influenced the Japanese mind. Japan ever refused to
become vassal or tributary to China, and the memory of one of her
military usurpers, who accepted the honorary title of Nihon-O, or King
of Japan, from the Chinese Emperor, is to this day loaded with
increasing execration. It has ever been the practice of the Japanese
court and people cheerfully to heap upon their mikado all the honors,
titles, poetical and divine appellations which belong also to the
Chinese emperor.
To conquer or humble their mighty neighbor, to cross their slender
swords of divine temper with the clumsy blades of the continental
braves, has been the ambition of more than one Japanese captain. But
Hidéyoshi alone is the one hero in Japanese annals who actually made
the attempt.
As the Mongol conquerors issuing from China had used Corea as their
point of departure to invade Japan, so Hidéyoshi resolved to make the
peninsula the road for his armies into China. After two centuries of
anarchy in Japan, he followed up the work which Nobunaga had begun
until the proudest daimiō had felt the weight of his arm, and the
empire was at peace.
Yet, although receiving homage and congratulations from his feudal
vassals, once proud princes, Hidéyoshi was irritated that Chō-sen,
which he, with all Japanese, held to be a tributary province, failed to
send like greetings. Since, to the Ashikagas, she had despatched
tribute and embassies, he was incensed that similar honors were not
awarded to him, though, for over a century, all official relations
between the two countries had ceased.
On the 31st day of July, 1585, Hidéyoshi was made Kuambaku, or Regent,
and to celebrate his elevation to this, the highest office to which a
subject of the mikado’s could aspire, he shortly afterward gave a great
feast in Kiōto, and proclaimed holiday throughout the empire. This
feast was graced by the presence of his highest feudatories, lords, and
captains, court nobles and palace ladies in their richest robes. Among
others was one Yasuhiro, a retainer of the lord of Tsushima.
Hidéyoshi’s memory had been refreshed by his having had read to him,
from the ancient chronicles, the account of Jingu Kōgō’s conquests in
the second century. He announced to his captains that, though Chō-sen
was from ancient times tributary to Japan, yet of late years her envoys
had failed to make visits or to send tribute. He then appointed
Yasuhiro to proceed to Seoul, and remind the king and court of their
duty.
The Japanese envoy was a bluff old campaigner, very tall, and of
commanding mien. His hair and beard had long since turned white under
years and the hardships of war. His conduct was that of a man
accustomed to command and to instant obedience, and to expect victory
more by brute courage than by address. On his journey to Seoul he
demanded the best rooms in the hotels, and annoyed even the people of
rank and importance with haughty and strange questions. He even laughed
at and made sarcastic remarks about the soldiers and their weapons.
This conduct, so different from that of previous envoys, greatly
surprised the Corean officials. Heretofore, when a Japanese officer
came to Fusan, native troops escorted him from Fusan to Seoul,
overawing him by their fierceness and insolence. Yasuhiro, accustomed
to constant war under Hidéyoshi’s gourd-banner, rode calmly on his
horse, and, amid the lines of lances drawn up as a guard of honor,
spoke to his followers in a loud voice, telling them to watch the
escort and note any incivility. In a certain village he joked with a
Corean soldier about his spear, saying, with a pun, that it was too
short and unfit for use. At this, all the Japanese laughed out loud.
The Coreans could not understand the language, but hearing the laugh
were angry and surprised at such boldness. At another town he insulted
an aged official who was entertaining him, by remarking to his own men
that his hair and that of the Japanese grew gray by years, or by war
and manly hardships; “but what,” cried he, “has turned this man’s hair
gray who has lived all his life amid music and dancing?” This sarcastic
fling, at premature and sensual old age, stung the official so that he
became speechless with rage. At the capital, credentials were presented
and a feast given, at which female musicians sang and wine flowed.
During the banquet, when all were well drunk, the old hero pulled out a
gourd full of pepper seeds and began to hand them around. The
singing-girls and servants grabbed them, and a disgraceful scuffle
began. This was what Yasuhiro wanted. Highly disgusted at their greedy
behavior, he returned to his quarters and poured out a tirade of abuse
about the manners of the people, which his Corean interpreter duly
retailed to his superiors. Yasuhiro made up his mind that the country
was in no way prepared for invasion; the martial spirit of the people
was very low, and the habits of dissipation and profligacy among them
had sapped the vigor of the men.
To the offensive conduct of the envoy was added the irritation produced
by the language of Hidéyoshi’s summons; for in his letter he had used
the imperial form of address, “we,” the plural of majesty. Yasuhiro
asked for a reply to these letters, that he might return speedily to
Japan. There was none given him, and the Coreans, pleading the flimsy
excuse of the difficulty of the voyage, refused to send an embassy to
Japan.
Hidéyoshi was very angry at the utter failure of Yasuhiro’s mission. He
argued that for an envoy to be content with such an answer was sure
proof that he favored the Coreans. Some of Yasuhiro’s ancestors, being
daimiōs of Tsushima, had served as envoys to Chō-sen, and had enjoyed a
monopoly of the lucrative commerce, and even held office under the
Corean government. Reflecting on these things, Hidéyoshi commanded
Yasuhiro and all his family to be put to death.
He then despatched a second envoy, named Yoshitoshi, himself the daimiō
of Tsu Island, who took with him a favorite retainer, and a priest,
named Genshō, as his secretary. They reached Seoul in safety, and,
after the formal banquet, demanded the despatch of an envoy to Japan.
The Corean dignitaries did not reply at once, but unofficially sent
word, through the landlord of the hotel, that they would be glad to
agree to the demand if the Japanese would send back the renegades who
piloted the Japanese pirates in their raids upon the Corean coasts.
Thereupon, Yoshitoshi despatched one of his suite to Japan. With
amazing promptness he collected the outlaws, fourteen in number, and
produced them in Seoul. These traitors, after confessing their crime,
were led out by the executioners and their heads knocked off.
Meanwhile, having tranquillized “all under Heaven” (Japan), even to
Yezo and the Ainos, and finding nothing “within the four seas” worth
capturing, Hidéyoshi cast his eyes southward to the little kingdom well
named Riu Kiu, or the Sleepy Dragon without horns. The people of these
islands, called Loo Choo, on old maps, are true Japanese in origin,
language, and dynasty. They speak a dialect kindred to that of Satsuma,
and their first historical ruler was Sunten, a descendant of Tamétomo,
who fled from Japan in the twelfth century. Of the population of
120,000 people, one-tenth were of the official class, who lived from
the public granaries. Saving all expense in war equipment, and warding
off danger from the two great powers between which they lay, they had
kept the good will of either by making their country act the part of
the ass which crouches down between two burdens. They made presents to
both, acknowledging Japan as their father, and China as their mother.
From early times they had sent tribute-laden junks to Ningpo, and had
introduced the Chinese classics, and social and political customs. When
the Ming dynasty came into power, the Chinese monarch bestowed on the
Prince of Riu Kiu a silver seal, and a name for his country, which
meant “hanging balls,” a reference to the fact that their island chain
hung like a string of tassels on the skirt of China. Another of their
ancient native names was Okinawa, or “long rope,” which stretches as a
cable between Japan and Formosa. Sugar and rice are the chief products.
Hidéyoshi, wishing to possess this group of isles as an ally against
China, and acting on the principle of baiting with a sprat in order to
catch a mackerel, sent word to Riu Kiu to pay tribute hereafter only to
him.
The young king, fearing the wrath of the mighty lord of Nippon, sent a
priest as his envoy, and a vessel laden with tribute offerings.
Arriving in the presence of the august parvenu, the priest found
himself most graciously received. Hidéyoshi entered into a personal
conversation with the bonze, and set forth the benefits of Riu Kiu’s
adherence to Japan alone, and her ceasing to send tribute to China. At
the same time he gave the priest clearly to understand that, willing or
unwilling, the little kingdom was to be annexed to the mikado’s empire.
When the priest returned to Riu Kiu and gave the information to the
king, the latter immediately despatched a vessel to China to inform the
government of the designs of Japan.
Meanwhile, the court at Seoul, highly gratified with the action of the
Japanese government in the matter of the renegade pilots, gave a
banquet to the embassy. Yoshitoshi had audience of the king, who
presented him with a horse from his own stables. An embassy was chosen
which left Seoul, in company with Yoshitoshi and his party, and their
musicians and servants, in April, 1590, and, after a journey and voyage
of three months, arrived at Kiōto during the summer of 1590. At this
time Hidéyoshi was absent in Eastern Japan, not far from the modern
city of Tōkiō, besieging Odawara Castle and reducing “the second Hōjō”
family to submission. Arriving at Kiōto in the autumn, he postponed
audience with the Coreans in order to gain time for war preparations,
for his heart was set on conquests beyond sea.
Finally, after five months had passed, they were accorded an interview.
They were allowed to ride in palanquins under the gateway of the palace
without dismounting—a mark of deference to their high rank—all except
nobles of highest grade being compelled to get out and walk. As usual,
their band of musicians accompanied them.
They report Hidéyoshi as a man of low appearance, but with eyes that
shot fire through their souls. All bowed before him, but his conduct in
general was of a very undignified character. This did not raise him in
the estimation of his guests, who had already discovered his true
position, which was that of a subject of the mikado, whose use of the
imperial “we” in his letters was, in their eyes, a preposterous
assumption of authority. They delivered the king’s letter, which was
addressed to Hidéyoshi on terms of an equal as a Koku O (king of a
nation, in distinction from the title of Whang Ti, by which title the
Heavenly Ruler, or Emperor—the Mikado of Japan, or the Emperor of
China—is addressed). The letter contained the usual commonplaces of
friendly greeting, the names of the envoys, and a reference to the list
of accompanying presents.
The presents—spoken of in the usual terms of Oriental mock
modesty—consisted of two ponies and fifteen falcons, with harness for
bird and beast, rolls of silk, precious drugs, ink, paper, pens, and
twenty magnificent tiger-skins. The interview over, Hidéyoshi wished
the envoys to go home at once. This they declined to do, but, leaving
Kiōto, waited at the port of Sakai. A letter to the king finally
reached them, but couched in so insolent a tone that the ambassadors
sent it back several times to be purged. Even in its improved form it
was the blustering threat of a Japanese bully. All this consumed time,
which was just what Hidéyoshi wished.
Some years before this, some Portuguese trading ships had landed at the
island of Tané, off the south of Japan. The Japanese, for the first
time, saw Europeans and heard their unintelligible language. At first
all attempts to understand them were in vain. A Chinese ship happened
to arrive about the same time, on which were some sailors who knew a
little Portuguese, and thus communications were held. The foreigners,
being handsomely treated, gave their hosts some firearms, probably
pistols, taught their use, and how to make powder. These “queer things,
able to vomit thunder and lightning, and emitting an awful smell,” were
presented to Shimadzŭ, the daimiō of Satsuma, who gave them to
Hidéyoshi. Among the presents, made in return to Chō-sen, were several
of these new weapons made by Japanese. They were most probably sent as
a hint, like that of the Pequot’s offering of the arrows wrapped in
snake-skin. With them were pheasants, stands of swords and spears,
books, rolls of paper, and four hundred gold koban (a coin worth about
$5.00).
With the returning embassy, Hidéyoshi sent the priest and a former
colleague of Yoshitoshi to Seoul. They were instructed to ask the king
to assist Hidéyoshi to renew peaceful relations between Japan and
China. These, owing to the long continued piratical invasions from
Japan, during the anarchy of the Ashikaga, had been suspended for some
years past.
The peaceful influences of Christianity’s teachings now came between
these two pagan nations, in the mind and person of Yoshitoshi, who had
professed the faith of Jesus as taught by the Roman Catholic
missionaries from Portugal, then in Japan. Be this as it may,
Yoshitoshi, who had been in Seoul, and lived in Tsushima, being well
acquainted with the military resources of the three countries, knew
that war would result in ruin to Chō-sen, while, in measuring their
swords with China, the Japanese were at fearful odds. Animated by a
desire to prevent bloodshed, he resolved to mediate with the olive
branch. He started on an independent mission, at his own cost, to
persuade the Coreans to use their good offices at mediation between
Japan and China, and thus prevent war. Arriving at Fusan, in 1591, he
forwarded his petition to Seoul, and waited in port ten days in hopes
of the answer he desired. But all was in vain. He received only a
letter containing a defiant reply to his master’s bullying letter. In
sadness he returned to Kiōto, and reported his ill-success. Surprised
and enraged at the indifference of the Coreans, Hidéyoshi pushed on his
war preparations with new vigor. He resolved to test to its utmost the
military strength of Japan, in order to humble China as well as her
vassal. Accustomed to victory under the gourd-banner in almost every
battle during the long series of intestine wars now ended, an army of
seasoned veterans heard joyfully the order to prepare for a campaign
beyond sea.
Hidéyoshi, during this year, nominally resigned the office of Kuambaku,
in favor of his son, and, according to usage, took the title of Taikō,
by which name (Taikō Sama) he is popularly known, and by which we shall
refer to him. Among the Coreans, even of to-day, he is remembered by
the title which still inspires their admiration and terror—Kuambaku.
Chinese writers give a grotesque account of Hidéyoshi, one of whose
many names they read as Ping-syew-kye. They call him “the man under a
tree,” in reference to his early nickname of Kinomoto. He is also
dubbed “King of Taikō.” The Jesuit missionaries speak of him in their
letters as Quabacundono (His Lordship the Kuambaku), or by one of his
personal names, Faxiba (Hashiba).
The Coreans were now in a strait. Though under the protectorate of
China, they had been negotiating with a foreign power. How would China
like this? Should they keep the entire matter secret, or should they
inform their suzerain of the intended invasion of China? They finally
resolved upon the latter course, and despatched a courier to Peking.
About the same time the messenger from Riu Kiu had landed, and was on
his way with the same tidings. The Riukiuan reached Peking first, and
the Corean arrived only to confirm the news. Yet, in spite of such
overwhelming evidence of the designs of Japan, the colossal “tortoise”
could, at first, scarce believe “the bee” would attempt to sting.