Chapter XVI

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.