Authors: Samuel Hawley
The Koreans were astounded by these reckless accusations. The two hundred years of loyalty to China of which they proudly spoke, dating back to the beginning of the Choson dynasty in 1392, had been entirely sincere and not a sham as Ding Yingtai now claimed. Any dealings Korea had had with Japan during this time had been undertaken for the purpose of controlling what Seoul and in turn Beijing regarded as a barbarian nation beyond the pale of the civilized world. This was what Korea’s longstanding policy of sadae-kyorin diplomacy was all about: on the one hand “serving the great” (sadae) in its relationship with China, and on the other hand cultivating “neighborly relations” (kyorin) with potentially hostile outside groups to prevent them from causing trouble and to keep them in their place. Korea had therefore permitted limited trade with Japan through the island of Tsushima for many years, because this served to co-opt the rulers of that island so that they could then be used to control the threat of wako pirates based in Japan. Korea had also exchanged envoys with Hideyoshi prior to 1592 because it had hoped this would quell his warlike intentions and teach him his place in a Beijing-centered world. At no time in its dealings with Hideyoshi had Korea ever betrayed China and “made common cause with the outlaws” as Ding asserted. On the contrary, in attempting to cultivate neighborly relations with Japan, Korea had been doing the very thing that Ding said it had not: it had been faithfully serving China as a “tributary buffer,” a buffer between the civilized center and the barbarian outside world.
The Imjin War obviously marked a failure on the Koreans’ part to keep the barbarian world at bay. It was a failure for which they had paid a terrible price. They had lost more people in the war than could ever be counted. Cities had been destroyed, the economy shattered, entire regions laid waste. They were grateful that China had come to their aid, and they had repeatedly thanked Beijing for having sacrificed so much. But they also knew that if Korea had not resisted Hideyoshi’s invasion and absorbed its full destructive impact, his armies would have marched on to Beijing to wreak havoc there. The Koreans could have spared themselves much of this hardship simply by allowing the Japanese army to march through their kingdom as the taiko had demanded. But they never considered this for a moment. They resisted Hideyoshi’s force as best they could, bringing upon themselves the ruination that he had planned to unleash on China. They had therefore served the Middle Kingdom very well indeed.
Ding Yingtai’s anti-Yang Hao, antiwar, and now anti-Korea accusations thus did more than just cause the Koreans anxiety that China might withdraw from the war, leaving them vulnerable to a renewed Japanese offensive. It wounded them at a much deeper level. King Sonjo felt this hurt most keenly, for all Ding’s wild talk of disloyalty and betrayal amounted to a personal charge of treason—treason against the emperor in Beijing, the Son of Heaven, who had granted him the authority to rule. In the Confucian worldview, loyalty to one’s lord was the most sacred duty of all, and betrayal of one’s lord in turn the most heinous crime. It was therefore a charge that Sonjo could not bear. On October 20, the same day that Ding’s report was leaked to the Koreans, the king issued the following memorandum:
I am the vassal on China’s eastern frontier. When the Japanese warlord Hideyoshi first began to threaten us, I adhered to my duty and did what was right, and broke off all contact with him. For this my country was smashed and my house destroyed, and I was forced to drift about like a refugee. Through it all, however, I have firmly guarded my integrity as a vassal, just as a river twists and turns a hundred times but always finds its way east to the sea. Even if I die ten thousand times, I will have nothing to regret.
Yet despite this I have been charged with what amounts to nothing less than a crime. I have personally witnessed how this deceit
ful fellow [Ding Yingtai] has recklessly slandered those who have been loyal and honest, seemingly intent on upsetting the grand design of the universe. It is for this reason that I am declaring the truth with all my strength, so that our Emperor might see clearly into the innermost heart of this malicious specter.
In the meantime, since he considered himself under indictment, awaiting either punishment or exoneration, King Sonjo could not continue to occupy the throne and perform his kingly duties. “Henceforth,” his memorandum concluded, “all matters previously handled by myself are to be referred to and decided by the Crown Prince.... Inform the senior officials of this.”
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With that Sonjo retired from office and went into seclusion. He would remain locked in his apartments for a week, the wound on his psyche manifesting itself in a host of physical ailments: his appetite was gone; he could not sleep; he felt tired and listless; his chest pained him; his eyesight was dim and his ears blocked up; his legs were lame with rheumatism.
Deprived of their king and head of state, the Korean government was thrown into turmoil. Unlike the Ming government in Beijing, which had long since learned to manage without the participation of the Wanli emperor, who had withdrawn from most of his state duties many years before, the Korean king was an integral part of the government; his oversight and approval were required in all sorts of state matters both great and small. Without King Sonjo’s presence the government therefore could not function. Day after day ministers and top officials submitted memorials urging him to return to his office. The first came from Prime Minister Yu Song-nyong, written on behalf of all the officials in the government. The king’s actions, Yu pointed out, were only making matters worse, for Ding Yingtai could now accuse him of refusing to perform his duties. In any case, Yu continued, how can a physician treat you if you do not come out from your rooms? King Sonjo would not relent. A physician, he replied, could do him no good. His illness had been brought on by the unfounded charges of the bestial Ding, and thus the only cure was exoneration from the Celestial Throne.
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Elder statesman Yun Tu-su next urged Sonjo to consider the critical stage that the war effort was at. For the sake of the nation he must rise above his personal hurt and resume his essential duties of directing the armed forces and arranging supplies. Again Sonjo refused. The principle involved was too great to be superseded by earthly concerns.
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King Sonjo maintained his stand for a week, rejecting all pleas to come out of his apartments and return to the throne. He finally relented on October 27. The pressure of the dozens of memorials sent to him had been too much. He undoubtedly was also somewhat heartened by reports that opposition was mounting against Ding Yingtai. Every major Ming official in
Seoul, including “Army Gate” Xing Jie, had by this time denounced Ding, and according to reports just in from Beijing anti-Ding sentiment was mounting there as well. Xing Jie also informed King Sonjo that Xu Guanlan, who had been dispatched to Korea to conduct an investigation of his own, had submitted a report recommending that King Sonjo and his nation be completely cleared of all Ding’s groundless charges. It was an encouraging start to what would eventually become a major turning of the tide against Ding Yingtai.
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Although King Sonjo was back on the throne, he and in turn his ministers had neither forgotten nor forgiven the charges of disloyalty that Ding had leveled against them. The matter would remain a sore point in relations between
Seoul and Beijing for the next several months, until Ding’s eventual dismissal and recall to China and the subsequent receipt of an edict from the Wanli emperor exonerating Sonjo and recognizing him as a good and loyal king.
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* * *
Ming General Ma Gui arrived at
Ulsan on Korea’s southeast coast in the latter part of October, just as King Sonjo was going into seclusion in Seoul. Ma had with him the 24,000 Chinese troops of his Eastern Route Army, plus 5,500 Koreans under Kyongsang Army Commander Kim Ung-so. A survey of the Japanese fortifications on the neighboring hill called Tosan revealed an even more impregnable stronghold than the allied forces had attacked earlier in the year. In their assault in January against the still unfinished fortress, troops under Ma, Yang Hao, and Korean commander in chief Kwon Yul had breached the stronghold’s outer defenses in just a day of fighting through a gaping hole in the wall where a gate had yet to be hung. Ma now observed that the outer gates were in place and all work on the place complete. A moat had also been dug around the fortress and filled with water diverted from the nearby Taehwa River. The 10,000-plus defenders inside under Kato Kiyomasa were evidently ready for a fight.
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As they had done at the first battle of Tosan, the allied Chinese and Korean troops surrounded and laid siege to Kato’s fortress. Once this was accomplished, however, Ma Gui made no move to press ahead with an attack. The only action that took place were minor skirmishes fought by allied units roaming the surrounding countryside to mop up isolated squads of Japanese troops. Ma already had firsthand experience from January of how difficult it was to storm Tosan and was not eager to risk the many thousands of casualties—not to mention his career—in making a second attempt. In any case what was the point? The Japanese were now hemmed in along the coast and seemed to be preparing for a general withdrawal. Why, then, waste troops to drive them out of
Korea, when they would probably leave of their own accord if the allies would simply be patient?
Ma Gui was willing to be patient. His colleague Dong Yiyuan, commanding general of the Central Route Army, was not. Dong reached
Korea’s southern coast at a point 150 kilometers to the west of Ma in the final week of October. He took possession of the remains of Chinju without a fight, then proceeded to Sachon, where he scored a second victory when the town’s five hundred-odd Japanese defenders, ordered to evacuate, abandoned the old fort and began to fall back. Eighty of them were caught and killed by Dong’s troops. The rest managed to rejoin the main Japanese force in the newly built fortress a few kilometers south, on a headland extending into Chinju Bay.
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There were now 8,000 Japanese troops holed up inside this fortress south of Sachon, under the command of sixty-three-year-old Shimazu Yoshi
hiro and his twenty-year-old son Tadatsune. They were outnumbered more than three to one by the 29,100-man army gathering outside the walls, 26,800 Chinese soldiers under Dong and 2,300 Koreans under Kyongsang Right Army Commander Chong Ki-ryong.
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Shimazu, how
ever, was a wily old campaigner with decades of combat experience in Japan’s wars of unification. He also knew something of fighting the Chinese, having been a major participant in the Battle of Namwon in September of the previous year. He stood calmly in a tower bordering his castle’s east gate, watching the enemy take Sachon and then his forward outposts, holding his son back from making a precipitous frontal attack. It would be wiser, he knew, to let the Chinese first expend some of their strength against the stout walls of his fort.
General Dong Yiyuan, unlike his colleague Ma Gui, had not previ
ously faced the Japanese and consequently went into the battle with his confidence high, impatient for a win. He launched his assault on October 30, 1598. Cannons were first brought forward and a barrage directed at the walls. An unusual siege engine was also used, a “wooden lever,” one Japanese chronicler called it, equipped in some manner with “gunpowder jars.”
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Positioned against the fortress’s main gate, it was ignited, and blasted the thick timbers to pieces. With that the order to attack was given and the allied forces charged at the smoking hole. Shimazu, having held his men back up to this point, now ordered his musketeers to fire into the mass of bodies at the base of the wall. Chinese and Korean casualties quickly mounted, but still they contin
ued to press forward.
Just then a tremendous explosion erupted in the very center of the attacking Ming troops. Fire had gotten into the “gunpowder jars” of the siege engine that had blown open the gate. The thunderous explosion sent bodies flying, and sent a wave of confusion through the ranks of the attackers. Then they turned and began to retreat.
Shimazu lost no time in taking advantage of the situation, ordering companies of men out from the eastern and western gates of the fortress to chase after the retreating Chinese and Koreans. The momentum of the battle now swung to the Japanese. Their charge sent the allied forces into retreat, the disciplined Japanese close on their heels, cutting down whole units as they went. By the end of the day a trail of dead bodies extended from the walls of Shimazu’s fortress all the way north to Chinju.
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Shimazu Yoshihiro would later claim that his men slaughtered 38,700 enemy troops that day
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—typical hyperbole for the Japanese but nowhere near the truth. The Battle of Sachon was nevertheless a resounding victory for the daimyo commander’s outnumbered men. According to more reliable Korean sources, between seven and eight thousand mainly Chinese troops were killed, most of them slaughtered as they attempted to flee, and vast amounts of supplies were lost.
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Ming general Dong Yiyuan tried to downplay the disaster in his reports by painting it as a stalemate. Losses had been heavy on both sides, he claimed, and the setback only temporary. “After my army rests, we will attack again.” The Koreans did not believe him. Neither would Dong’s superiors in
Beijing.
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