Authors: Samuel Hawley
Government official Han Ung-in was in the meantime whipping up his own three thousand men to join the attack. Some of these troops, seasoned veterans who had seen action against the Jurchen tribes of the north, were reluctant to cross the river and attempted to point out to Han that the Japanese withdrawal might be merely a ruse. Han instantly silenced them by having several executed. Commander in Chief Kim Myong-won, who thought the planned attack ill-advised, looked on with disapproval but could do nothing; the government had specifically exempted Han from obeying his commands.
With Yu Kuk-ryang leading the way, a portion of the Korean army crossed the
Imjin River and scrambled up the bluff on the south bank. There was no sign of the enemy, only their abandoned camps. They then proceeded south toward the trees—and into a hail of withering musket fire, for the Japanese had not retreated after all, but were hiding in the woods beyond. The Koreans made a rush back to the river. The first to get there piled into the boats and tried to get away, capsizing some in their panic. Others leaped off the bluff and into the water, “like leaves blowing in the wind.” The Japanese, in hot pursuit, descended upon them and finished them off. The aged commander Yu Kuk-ryang, intent to the last on proving his courage, reportedly dismounted from his horse and said, “This is the place where I will die.” It was. And he did. So did Sin Kil.
All was not yet lost for the Koreans at the Imjin. Significant casualties had been sustained in the assault, but there was still a large body of men on the north bank of the river, and they had made a present to the Japanese of only a few boats. They were thus still in a position to keep the invaders pinned down if they would only stand their ground.
They did not. Upon witnessing the slaughter on the river’s south bank, one of the commanders on the far shore, a civil official with no military experience, got on his horse and galloped away. Those who observed his flight mistook him for Kim Myong-won, and soon the cry went up, “The commander in chief is running away!” The false report spread like wildfire, the rank and file lost their nerve, and soon men began scattering in every direction. And so the supremely defensible north bank of the Imjin River was abandoned by the Koreans, served up on a platter to the undoubtedly delighted Japanese. By July 7 the entire Japanese force had crossed the river and was marching toward Kaesong, which they soon occupied without a fight.
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After taking
Kaesong, the Japanese vanguard did not proceed in a body toward Pyongyang. Instead the three contingents separated and headed off in different directions. Konishi Yukinaga continued north into Pyongan, the northwestern province running from the city of Pyongyang to the Yalu River and China beyond, the territory through which the Korean king would be passing in his continuing flight to safety. Kuroda Nagamasa swung west into Hwanghae Province. This would entail a brief detour to subdue a string of midsize towns near the Yellow Sea coast, then a return to the main route north in the vicinity of Pyongyang, where he would rejoin Konishi. Kato Kiyomasa, finally, proceeded to the remote northeastern province of Hamgyong. This would be anything but a brief detour. Hamgyong was a wilderness of mountain peaks and forests running all the way to the Manchurian border and would keep the bearded daimyo occupied for months.
This division of forces at
Kaesong was to have a potentially significant bearing on the course of the war. By sidetracking Kato in Hamgyong and leaving the task of opening a route to China in the hands of Konishi and Kuroda, the strength and in turn the forward momentum of the Japanese advance was effectively cut in half. As mentioned above, moreover, Konishi and his son-in-law So Yoshitoshi were trying to reach a settlement with the Koreans that would bring the fighting to an end. The task of “slashing a way to China” and capturing Beijing had thus fallen to the two men least eager to do the job. Kato, on the other hand,
was
fully committed to Hideyoshi’s plan to conquer China. Of all the daimyo serving in Korea, he would remain truest to his master’s grand design. As he wrote to Hideyoshi from Kaesong on July 9, shortly before separating from the other contingents, “The expeditionary force under the command of this humble subject is going to conquer Hamgyong-do, a remote province in the northeastern part of Korea. The place is located far from the territory of Ming, more than ten days’ journey. If your highness wishes to cross the sea to conquer Ming, please give me an order at the earliest possible date. In that case, I will speed by day and night to your place to take the lead in the conquest.”
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If the assignments had been distributed differently, therefore, and Kato had proceeded into the crucial central
province of Pyongan rather than to Hamgyong off to the side, who knows how far he might have gone? He probably would not have tried to advance all the way to Beijing; he still seemed to think that Hideyoshi soon would be arriving to oversee that final push. But he might have slashed his way farther north than Konishi eventually did, perhaps all the way to the Yalu River and into China beyond. It would have been a bold thrust, it would have exposed his men to extreme risks, and it might even have resulted in the annihilation of his force. But it would have been in keeping with the fierce and loyal Kato.
*
* *
It was now July 10. In Pyongyang King Sonjo called a meeting of his ministers to discuss what should be done now that the Japanese had crossed the
Imjin River and were approaching the city. Minister of Personnel Yi Won-ik began by expressing the widely held view that Pyongyang should be held even if it meant dying to the last man. If that was to be done, Minister of War Yi Hang-bok cautioned, then plans had to be immediately drawn up; waiting until the situation was desperate and then hastily throwing a defense together—as had been done at Seoul—was not the way to proceed.
King Sonjo then spoke up. He did not think it was safe for him to remain in
Pyongyang, he said. He wished to move elsewhere. Two options were then discussed for the evacuation of the king: the town of Yongbyon on the road to Uiju and China beyond, and Kanggye in the far northeast. “I have been advised by my military men,” Sonjo said, “that the terrain around Kanggye is advantageous.”
“I have just returned from Kanggye,” offered Chong Chol, the Western faction leader Sonjo had recently recalled from exile at the request of a petitioner at
Kaesong. “It is cold and the ground is infertile, so it would be difficult to feed any soldiers stationed there.”
Minister of the Left Yun Tu-su added that Kanggye was also too remote. “It has long been said,” he observed, “that if you are at the center you can get things done, but if you go off to the side you cannot issue commands.”
“Then I cannot go to Kanggye,” replied King Sonjo.
In the end it was decided that when it became necessary for the royal household to evacuate
Pyongyang, King Sonjo would go north to Yongbyon. The idea was also broached that Crown Prince Kwanghae should proceed separately to Kanggye or some other place in the northeast. The reason for this probably had to do with Sonjo’s often repeated desire to “comfort the people,” a euphemism for quelling public dissatisfaction with the government and in turn with himself. Making the royal presence more widely felt across the north, it was perhaps hoped, would mollify the people, calm their rebellious inclinations, and in turn remind them of their duty to support their king and resist the Japanese.
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The time for the royals to flee the city came very quickly. On July 16 Konishi Yukinaga with his vanguard first contingent arrived at the south bank of the
Taedong River, within sight of the walls of Pyongyang. The Kyushu daimyo had now entered the vastness of Pyongan-do, the northwestern province of Korea that had been promised to him as a fief.
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He was joined within a few days by Kuroda Nagamasa’s third contingent, flush with success after its sweep through
Hwanghae Province. There were no boats and no other way to cross the Taedong to continue their march on the city, so as at the Imjin River they set up camp and sat down to wait. Their presence soon had Pyongyang in an uproar. City and government officials tried to prevent the populace from fleeing, for everyone would be needed to defend the walls if they were to stand any chance of repelling the Japanese. There are thousands of troops to man the walls, the officials announced to the public. There are plenty of weapons, and abundant food and supplies, enough to withstand a siege for many months. Pyongyang is a strong fortress city; it will not fall like Seoul. But the people would not listen. As it is written in the Ssu-ma fa, “When men have minds filled with fear, all they see is their fear.”
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On that same day King Sonjo and his entourage began making preparations to resume their northward flight. First the queen was sent northeast to Hamhung in
Hamgyong Province, where she hopefully would be safe and able to spread the royal presence. Then the Tablet Guard, a select body of men responsible for transporting and safeguarding the nation’s most precious possession, the ancestral tablets of the Choson dynasty, was dispatched. The sight of this august force marching solemnly toward the gate leading to the north road created an uproar among those citizens who still remained in the city, for the evacuation of the ancestral tablets, the embodiment of royal power, meant that King Sonjo himself would be soon leaving too. A crowd armed with clubs and stones gathered and blocked the guard’s way, and angrily confronted the official at its head. “You called upon us to protect the city,” they cried indignantly, “but now here you are running away yourself when danger threatens.” After a prolonged shouting match the guard managed to shoulder its way through the gate and proceeded on its journey. The mob then marched on the palace where King Sonjo was staying and forced its way into the inner courtyard, shouting, “If the king leaves it will be the same as handing us over to slaughter!” Yu Song-nyong came out and reprimanded the people for their unruly conduct and rude behavior in front of their sovereign, and finally managed to cow them into submission and shoo them into the street. But any hope that the citizenry of Pyongyang would stay and defend the walls was now lost. With the knowledge that their king would soon be leaving, the exodus that had already bled the city of much of its population continued unabated, until the ancient Koguryo capital was entirely deserted.
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The day after reaching the
Taedong River just south of the city, Konishi Yukinaga and So Yoshitoshi attempted for a fourth time since their arrival in Korea to contact the Korean government. A message was sent across the river requesting a meeting with Yi Dok-hyong, the same government official they had asked to meet at Chungju. Yi had never made it to that meeting; upon receiving word that Chungju had fallen, he had halted his journey and returned to Seoul. He was subsequently sent to Beijing to seek Chinese aid and had just arrived back in Pyongyang when the message arrived from the Japanese requesting that he attend a parley.
The meeting took place early the next day, July 17, in the middle of the Taedong, Yi Dok-hyong in one boat, Japanese representatives Yanagawa Shigenobu and the monk Genso in another. (Both men, it will be recalled, had been aides to So Yoshitoshi in his prewar nego
tiations with the Koreans.) Yi began by asking why the meeting had been requested. “Because we don’t want this war with your country,” replied Genso. “Previously, from Tongnae and Sangju and then Seoul, we sent messages to your king asking for a settlement, but the only answer we have received has been continued resistance all the way here. But we’re still prepared to be reasonable. So we ask you again: clear the way to China and let us pass, and save yourselves from destruction.”
Significantly, Genso did not speak of the Japanese armies as having been sent to conquer
China. All they wanted was to have “friendly relations” with the Ming. It was therefore quite unreasonable for the Koreans to stand in their way—and pointless too, for the Koreans had already proven themselves incapable of resisting the Japanese advance. They now lay prostrate on the ground, bloody and broken, unable to fend off the blows being inflicted upon them, let alone strike back. So why wouldn’t they just step aside and bring all the pain to an end? Why were they so stubbornly refusing to let the Japanese “make contact” with China? Was that asking so much?
From the Korean perspective, of course, it was asking for the world. It was patently obvious by now that the stated desire of the Japanese for “friendly relations” with
Beijing was disingenuous. They wanted to conquer China and unseat the Ming, a sacrilege so foul to the Koreans that they recoiled from it in horror. Yi Dok-hyong’s reply to Genso was thus unequivocal, and left no room for negotiation. “Ming is just like a father to our country,” he said. “Even if we face destruction there is no way we can accede to your demands.” Then he added, “If it is true that you want to negotiate a settlement with us and have friendly relations with China, turn your armies around and return to your country. If you do that, we will then consider the matter.”
That was not what Yanagawa and Genso wanted to hear. “Our armies only go forward!” they said angrily. “We know nothing of retreat! If this is your answer then there can be no peace.” With that the boats were untied and returned to their respective shores.
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On the following day the Japanese, in an effort to break the deadlock and shock the Koreans into doing something foolish, lashed together a handful of rafts and floated a unit of musketeers to the middle of the Taedong to fire upon Pyongyang. The Korean forces within the city did not precipitously abandon their defenses as the Japanese undoubtedly hoped they would. But the demonstration did prompt King Sonjo to flee. On July 19 he slipped out of the city and resumed his flight north to Yongbyon, a journey, he was told, that would take five days.