The Devil Soldier (36 page)

Despite all this very real concern, however, expediency remained the rule in a war that was far from decided: By late March Peking had sanctioned not only Ward and his Ever Victorious Army but the use of
foreign regulars. Tseng Kuo-fan continued to protest the employment of such troops in the interior, but Peking had begun to consider the possibility of joint action by Tseng’s troops, Ward’s men, and perhaps even the foreign regulars as far inland as Soochow and, eventually, Nanking. Still, China’s rulers made these deliberations in an air of general nervousness, and their behavior exhibited a fear of treachery that was almost self-fulfilling. Seemingly aware that Ward’s commitment to China might not imply equal devotion to the Manchu dynasty, the imperial clique stayed constantly on the alert for signs of insincerity from the commander of the Ever Victorious Army. As a result, much was made in Peking—perhaps understandably—of events and statements that were less than sinister, sometimes even trivial, while the very real service that Ward rendered to the empire was not fully appreciated until after his death, when it was safe to do so.

An incident early in the 1862 campaign illustrates the unfortunate way in which battlefield expediencies could lead to philosophical alarm in Peking. According to Dr.
Macgowan, a rebel party laden with plunder suddenly found itself surrounded by Ward’s men. In a typically short, sharp action the rebels were defeated, and Ward ordered their boats and goods burned. Local villagers had gathered in the hope of plundering the rebel contingent, and at their head was a blue-button mandarin. Ward declared that there was to be no looting, but the mandarin heedlessly led his villagers in among the defeated rebels. At that point, Ward ordered one of his soldiers to shoot the mandarin. But, as Dr. Macgowan observed, “the order was regarded with dismay. The soldier refused—partly because the blue-button was only doing what each soldier desired to do; but chiefly, because shooting an officer [mandarin] was tantamount to patricide. Colonel Forester then himself shot the offender—the moral effect of which was more salutary than the shooting of a whole squad of privates.”

Macgowan’s phrase “tantamount to patricide” was no exaggeration: The summary execution of a high-ranking mandarin in front of a large number of Chinese soldiers and peasants was an open challenge to the Confucian order, even though the man’s behavior and the military situation demanded it. Peking, all too ready to see a pattern in Ward’s
behavior that might clearly indicate disrespect and even disloyalty, could not help but be alarmed by such actions, even though Ward carried them out to advance the cause of internal stability in China.

By many accounts, Ward’s penchant for making broad statements about his army and his ambitions also made the Manchus question whether he was a loyal servant. A. A.
Hayes later remembered that Ward “habitually spoke of his means, etc.” in a “random way,” while Admiral Hope observed during the summer of 1862 that Ward “talks a little fast sometimes as to what he will do, American fashion.” Ironically enough, Ward’s natural tendencies in this direction may have been exacerbated by his association with Chinese officers and officials: Blatantly ungrounded self-glorification was a fundamental feature of the Chinese bureaucracy. At any rate, during the summer of 1862 Ward managed to create several grandiose impressions among Shanghai’s Westerners as to his eventual intentions. And, while it is easy enough to speculate that he may have done so simply to see what effect such talk would create (in much the same way he threw himself off the Salem wharves as a boy to gauge adult reactions), it is true that Peking took such talk very seriously. Hayes, noting Ward’s elevation to “a position never attained by any other foreigner in the Chinese service” (a position that only heightened Peking’s fears), went on to reveal that “[h]e had received unexampled promotion, and knew that upon the expected capture of Nanking he would be raised to the rank of a prince of the blood royal. It is also a fact that his consuming ambition aimed at the restoration of the old Chinese dynasty to the throne so long held by their Tartar conquerors.”

This rumor, which Hayes so blithely (and without evidence) cited as a “fact,” was well-circulated among Westerners in China: Tseng Kuo-fan’s most eminent biographer was just one expert who acknowledged that “there are many who believe that [Ward] cherished a design to carve out for himself an empire in China.” The Chinese government, which had eyes and ears throughout the settlements, could not have been unaware of such talk, and it is easy to imagine the kind of anxiety it must have engendered in the Forbidden City.

Typically, the imperial government’s response to what they perceived
as Ward’s lack of restraint was an attempted exercise of greater control. For this reason, all the correspondence between
Hsüeh Huan and the throne concerning Ward’s acceptance as a Chinese subject, as well as his elevation to third-rank mandarin and brigadier general, was two-tracked. On the first and most obvious level there was appreciation for Ward’s contributions to the imperial cause, but on the second level there was a more shielded—yet more important—hope that such honors and rewards would bring Ward finally and completely under Manchu sway. This effort can be seen as analogous to Prince Kung’s belief that by granting treaty concessions to the Westerners and subsequently living by the terms of those treaties China would not be giving strength away but gaining greater control over the treaty powers.

Both policies were successful—to a degree. John K. Fairbank is certainly right to see the treaty system in nineteenth-century China as an extension of the ancient tribute system—in the minds of the Chinese, at any rate. In this light the creation of the Tsungli Yamen (the imperial Chinese foreign office) and the extensive machinations of Prince Kung were not so much concessions to the West as sophisticated ways to try to “pacify and control men from afar,” as one imperial edict put it. Certainly, such efforts did not imply any Chinese acceptance of the superiority of Western culture or methods of doing business; as Fair-bank points out, “[T]he treaties themselves did not remake the Chinese view of the world. To China they represented the supremacy of Western power, but this did not convey the Western idea of the supremacy of law.”

Kung and Tz’u-hsi’s approach to both Ward and Burgevine (who had followed Ward’s example not only by petitioning for Chinese citizenship but by marrying a Chinese woman) reflected this same underlying attitude. Fairbank’s summary of the results that Peking hoped to bring about through its complex system of rewarding and elevating the two Americans is worth quoting at length:

The record concerning individual mercenaries like Frederick Townsend Ward conforms to the following pattern: first, the foreign adventurer displays his bravery and devotion to the imperial cause by fighting the rebels with great ardor and daring, even to the point of being seriously wounded. Secondly, he seeks the equivalent of “Chinese citizenship,” that is, to be enrolled in the Chinese population register, forgoing the jurisdiction of his own foreign consul. In addition, he adopts Chinese customs—for example, Chinese dress—and may even marry a Chinese wife. Finally he is given Chinese military rank and assimilated into the command of troops.…

In all these dealings with foreign military figures, the Ch’ing [Manchu] officials … feel it essential that if a foreigner is to lead a force of Chinese troops he must have imperial military status. This is conferred upon him personally from the emperor, as on any Ch’ing official. In return the foreigner is reported to be respectful, submissive, grateful, and loyal. As far as possible he is taken into the Chinese cultural order, parallel to his entrance into the Chinese power structure. When Ward and Burgevine are considered to have “turned toward civilization,” seemingly forsaking their allegiance to their homeland, it is a serious and important point. Their opportunism must be watched and their sincerity kept under inspection, but the fact that they, almost alone among the foreign community of the time, have made a gesture of seeking registration as Chinese subjects makes it possible for them to lead a strategic military force in a vital sector of China. The Ch’ing officials control them through a personal relationship, which is the essence of control in the Chinese bureaucracy.

Such, of course, was not the situation as it actually existed but as China’s rulers wished their own people and the outside world to see it. The imperial clique consistently portrayed themselves as
leading
military commanders such as Ward—as well as events in the Taiping rebellion generally—rather than being led
by
them. But in fact imperial policy concerning Ward, the Ever Victorious Army, and the Chinese civil war was almost always reactive. Never were specific goals or innovations set up ahead of time, personalities found to implement them, and results obtained that were in keeping with the original plan. From the earliest days of Tseng Kuo-fan’s Hunan Army through the establishment of Ward’s Ever Victorious Army, the various emperors and their advisers
in the Forbidden City had been one step behind events, trying to assert their control over men and developments that consistently raced ahead of them.

In Ward’s case, a careful examination of the details of his participation in both the Chinese “cultural order” and the imperial “power structure” reveals the startling extent to which he established his own pattern of relationship with the Chinese government. True, Ward did display “his bravery and devotion to the imperial cause by fighting the rebels with great ardor and daring,” but he did so for a stipulated fee. The recapture of cities continued to net Ward handsome bonuses (although he sometimes accepted, quite unwisely, promissory notes from his backers in lieu of these bonuses), and this system was deeply resented by the imperial government. Similarly, Ward did seek Chinese citizenship, but he scorned the avarice and cowardice of his Chinese superiors and on at least one occasion had such a man put to death: an open challenge to the Confucian order.

As for adopting Chinese customs, Ward was anything but consistent. He showed respect for those customs that he found admirable or useful, but he steadfastly refused to oblige his imperial masters by either shaving his forehead or wearing his Chinese clothes. He did don his mandarin’s robes once, but only out of deference to his wife and her family, a fact that must have piqued his superiors in Peking. Not only did Ward refuse to put himself into traditional Chinese garb but he obliged his soldiers to wear Western uniforms and taught them English drill commands. The “imitation foreign devils”—or, as the Chung Wang called them, “devil soldiers”—were initially embarrassed by all this, and by the ridicule of their fellow Chinese, but success in battle gave them great pride, just as it heightened Peking’s discomfort with them.

Ward did marry a Chinese wife, but Chang-mei was the daughter of a Chekiang merchant who commanded little respect in Peking, as well as a woman of “bad luck” (the imperial clique, especially Tz’u-hsi, were nothing if not superstitious). And while Ward was given Chinese rank, this was as much an expression of concern and the need for control as it was of satisfaction. Finally, Ward’s leadership of “a strategic military force in a vital sector of China” predated Peking’s acceptance of his request for Chinese citizenship. As always, China’s rulers were forced
to give Ward what he wanted in order to keep him fighting. Imperial edicts subsequently tried to take the attitude that the government’s plan all along had been to nurture Ward’s development as a loyal Chinese subject. His promotions were portrayed as the natural reward for his successful completion of a process over which Peking had always been in control. But in fact Ward had shrewdly accrued to himself a measure of influence and independence unheard of even for a native Chinese officer, and robbed the imperial government of much of its freedom of action.

Yet did all this mean that Ward was disloyal or intended one day to commit one of the “ten abominations,” subversion of the state? Certainly Ward was never anything but steadfastly true to China’s interests, but China’s interests and those of the Manchu elite were already becoming distinct considerations. Still, nothing in Ward’s actions ever smacked of treason against the Manchus. His “fast” talk in Shanghai apparently did contain occasional references to the reestablishment of a native Chinese dynasty with himself in a position of power and influence, but such statements can more than easily be explained by his frustration with “Rascally” imperial officials. Or it is possible that he quite seriously intended to carve out his own principality. Certainly, the person who believed such ambitions beyond him “did not,” in A. A. Hayes’s phrase, “know General Ward.”

That such pervasive uncertainty should have whirled around one man’s actions explains why imperial edicts issued after Ward’s death displayed simultaneous remorse and relief. Ward’s services would certainly be missed by Peking, but the constant anxiety he prompted would not. Already, in the spring of 1862, that anxiety was becoming explicit at the provincial level: In April Hsüeh Huan memorialized to the throne and expressed second thoughts about Ward’s conduct during the battles at Kao-ch’iao and Hsiao-t’ang. Certainly, Hsüeh was trying to excuse his own military incompetence, and that of his subordinate commanders, by criticizing Ward, but the memorial reveals the quandary into which government officials had been thrown:

As for the fact that Ward refused our army’s help in his allied action with British and French troops, in which they broke the rebels’ fortresses at Kao-ch’iao and Hsiao-t’ang, Ward’s intention was to demonstrate his own capability and monopolize the achievement.… In all now there are about three thousand men [in the Ever Victorious Army]. Having observed Ward’s capabilities, I think that this is the highest number he can command; if there are any more than that, I am afraid that he will not be able to train them thoroughly. Furthermore, there is something that I feel I should report, although it may be only my excessive suspicion. Ward is an American.… I thought that during this war against the rebels it is hard to find fine generals, so I sent in several memorials to petition the Throne’s favor for him. But recently I have noticed that Ward is becoming more and more arrogant, treating the Ever Victorious Army as if it were his own. He makes his own decisions about the army’s actions; whenever a battle is fought, he takes action before official orders reach him. His disobedience has become obvious. And after every battle he asks for a heavy reward, and it is not easy to satisfy his appetite. It is understood that foreigners love money and fame, but Ward’s character is still too extreme and his heart is hard to fathom. I, your servant, dare not guarantee that he will be consistent [in his loyalty], and I will try to restrict him generally and thwart his arrogance. If his army becomes too large, it will be a tail too big to wag.