Chapter 343: Court Politics

Beyond the corruption and inefficiency of the entire canal transport system, maintaining the river route under normal conditions was also extremely difficult, consuming vast amounts of manpower and resources. Throughout the dynasties, apart from “taming the rivers,” the greatest expenditure on water conservancy was keeping the Grand Canal navigable. The canal stretched for over two thousand li from south to north, requiring countless locks and ponds, and the excavation of artificial rivers to regulate water levels and volume. This was especially true after entering Shandong, where it was affected by the unpredictable course of the Yellow River. Every winter, the river sections north of the Huai River would freeze over, making it impossible for the grain barges to pass, forcing them to “wait for the thaw.”

Maintaining the canal infrastructure consumed huge amounts of manpower and resources, and ensuring transport capacity was also costly. The large number of canal transport soldiers and barges represented another enormous expense. The entire endeavor of canal transport was so difficult and expensive that from an economic standpoint, it was completely irrational, a product purely of “political necessity.”

When Zhu Yuanzhang established the Ming Dynasty and chose Nanjing as the capital instead of Beijing, it was not without the consideration of being “close to the source of grain,” near the government’s financial supply base, to reduce transport costs.

Zhao Yigong’s critique of the Ming’s canal transport from both economic and systemic perspectives was based on clear facts and solid arguments, supplemented by the research, summaries, and commentary of Chinese and foreign historians from the 20th and 21st centuries. Zhang Pu could not help but be impressed.

Zhang Pu had long been aware of the canal system’s flaws—otherwise, he wouldn’t have suggested the court divert Taicang’s tribute grain to local military supply. But he had never studied the issue comprehensively. Now, listening to Zhao Yigong’s well-reasoned and articulate account, he was secretly astonished. This Master Zhao, though utterly lacking in the Four Books and Five Classics, possessed great vision! When it came to the study of “statecraft and practical application,” there were truly few among his own circle who could surpass him.

The more he listened, the more surprised he became. Only after Zhao Yigong had finished did he slowly say, “You are a great talent, sir!”

“I dare not claim so! Just some private opinions,” Zhao Yigong replied, feeling exhilarated and relieved. The man before him was not just anyone, but the renowned Zhang Pu! To be praised as a “great talent” by such a person was enough to make one a little giddy.

“In that case, sir, since you believe the corruption of the canal system is the root cause, how should the suffering of the people from the tribute grain be resolved?”

Zhao Yigong immediately threw out the line he had been planning for a long time.

“The only way is to abolish the river route and switch to the sea!” Zhao Yigong said in a solemn voice. “The accumulated evils of the canal transport are too deep. Nothing short of starting anew will suffice!”

These words carried immense weight. Since the Sui Dynasty dug the canal and the southeast became the empire’s financial heartland during the Tang, canal transport had been the great artery sustaining the dynasty. The smooth passage of the tribute grain northward every autumn was a matter of life and death for the dynasty.

Zhang Pu was a man of vast learning and knew that the idea of “abolishing the river and using the sea” was not Zhao Yigong’s invention. It had been proposed before, and during the Yuan Dynasty, tribute grain was indeed transported by sea.

However, most people had a fear of the sea—especially in a traditional continental country like China. Except for coastal residents, most people considered sea voyages a near-certain death sentence. To think of loading hundreds of thousands of shi of grain onto ships to sail across the ocean! The thought alone was unsettling.

Zhang Pu was no exception. He had no direct understanding of sea transport. “The sea is fraught with unpredictable storms,” he said. “I hear that much of the grain and provisions sent from Dengzhou to Liaodong is lost at sea. This tribute grain is the foundation of our state…”

Zhao Yigong thought to himself: This ‘loss’ is less a tribute to the Sea Dragon King and more a gift to a cohort of officials and generals. I’m afraid successive governors of Dengzhou and Laizhou, commanders of Dongjiang, and officials of the Ministry of Revenue… have all made enough money from this ‘loss’ to last their families for generations. If it weren’t for the fact that everyone at this time believes foreign lands are ‘barbarian territories,’ they would have emigrated with their wives and children long ago.

“When sailing at sea, some loss is inevitable, but it may not all be due to natural disasters,” Zhao Yigong hinted, then continued, “Please consider, sir: although the Yuan Dynasty was short-lived, it lasted for ninety-seven years. If the losses were so great, I fear the Yuan would not have survived even seven years.”

The conversation with Zhang Pu lasted for several hours. The depth and breadth of Zhao Yigong’s economic knowledge greatly impressed the literary leader of the late Ming. It had to be said that the Fu She was not a group that merely engaged in empty talk about righteousness and Confucianism; they placed considerable importance on the study of “statecraft and practical application.”

Although Zhang Pu ultimately did not give Zhao Yigong a definite answer, Zhao Yigong felt that he had largely achieved the purpose of his trip.

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In the Palace of Heavenly Purity, the lights were still on late at night.

The palace drum tower had already sounded the third watch, yet the maids before the imperial presence were still quietly trimming the candlewicks. It seemed the emperor would be reviewing memorials all night again.

In the brightly lit warm pavilion, stacks of memorials and reports were neatly piled on the imperial desk. They had just been delivered from the Office of Transmission that afternoon, covering nearly half the desk.

The emperor sat behind the desk, his face sallow under the lamplight—the characteristic complexion of someone who suffered from chronic lack of sleep and mental exhaustion. There was an endless stream of reports to read and state affairs to handle every day. In terms of diligence, Chongzhen was not only more hardworking than his father, brother, and grandfather, but he was also one of the most diligent emperors in the entire Ming Dynasty.

However, like a hardworking student who always fails his exams, his diligence had brought no improvement to the state of the Ming; on the contrary, it was getting worse and worse.

Natural disasters from all over the country: droughts, floods, plagues, earthquakes, banditry… Memorials requesting tax relief and aid flew in from all regions like snowflakes. Even the traditionally prosperous southeast, the financial heartland of the nation, was constantly hit by disasters. The already dire fiscal situation had reached an unsustainable point.

Military pressure was mounting, a true case of being beset by enemies from within and without. Not only were the bandits in Shaanxi growing in strength, but the Eastern Barbarians (Manchus), who had previously been rampaging beyond the Great Wall, had now invaded within the passes, which was a great shock to him.

As if the situation of the Ming was not bad enough, just as the She-An Rebellion was gradually being pacified, a massive pirate force, the “Kun” bandits, emerged from the sea in Guangdong. They invaded Qiongzhou and even reached the walls of Guangzhou. The Governor-General of Liangguang, Wang Zunde, sent troops to suppress them, but the Guangdong Provincial Commander, He Rubin, suffered a disastrous defeat in Qiongzhou, and the Guangdong official army was almost completely wiped out. This was followed by a flurry of reports about these pirates plundering the region.

Fortunately, the Kun bandits failed to take Guangzhou after a siege of several months and retreated back to the sea. Although reports from Guangdong indicated heavy local losses, at least no prefectures or counties had fallen. He had issued an edict exempting the war-torn prefectures and counties from the summer and autumn grain taxes. This brought him some relief: Guangdong was now the second most important source of revenue after the southeast. If Guangdong also fell into chaos, he truly felt he would not be able to hold the court together.

When he received the report from the Governor of Guangdong, Li Fengjie, that the Kun bandits had withdrawn from Humen and their whereabouts were unknown, he finally breathed a sigh of relief. Although the hesitant tone and evasive language in the memorials and reports told him that the local officials and troops had likely suffered more defeats, lost soldiers and generals, and left the region in ruins, ultimately “escorting the Kun bandits away while following them,” it was still a good outcome for him. The Kun bandits had not become a lasting menace, and the fallen counties in Qiongzhou Prefecture had been recovered. The Ming had already shed too much blood against the Eastern Barbarians and the bandits; it could not afford a new Kun bandit threat. Although Guangdong had suffered losses, at least there were no lingering troubles. For that alone, he was grateful to heaven and earth.

However, such comforting memorials were few and far between. The endless stream of bad news that reached his desk every day was overwhelming. In recent months, the Dengzhou mutiny had become his most pressing concern.

Mutinies themselves were no longer a big deal. Since the Tianqi era, the army had grown increasingly arrogant. Protests for pay, mutinies, and the beating of civil officials and killing of generals had become commonplace. This was especially true for Dongjiang, which had not known peace since Mao Wenlong’s execution. Now, the Liaodong soldiers in Dongjiang had actually mutinied in Dengzhou, openly occupying prefectures and counties and killing officials.

The situation escalated, with reports claiming the rebels had taken seven cities in a row—the fall of Dengzhou, in particular, shook him deeply. Dengzhou was a key coastal defense fortress for the Liaodong front, connecting Dongjiang and Shandong, and also serving as a port for communication with Korea. The court had invested heavily in the area for years—especially after Sun Yuanhua became the governor of Dengzhou, the court spent 800,000 taels of silver annually on training new troops and building cannons there. Now, it had all gone up in smoke. How could he not feel heartbroken?

In his fury, he had several times wanted to dismiss Sun Yuanhua and have him arrested for questioning. But each time, he hesitated.

Sun Yuanhua had escaped from Dengzhou and was now organizing defenses and planning a counter-offensive in Laizhou. If he were to be removed now, there was no suitable replacement to take over immediately. Secondly, most of the troops in the Dengzhou and Laizhou area had been under Sun Yuanhua’s command. Sending a new governor might destabilize the army’s morale, and if another incident occurred, it would be adding frost to snow.

Moreover, the two Grand Secretaries, Xu Guangqi and Zhou Yanru, were vigorously defending Sun Yuanhua, petitioning the emperor to let him atone for his crime through meritorious service.

These two Grand Secretaries were both men the emperor respected and relied upon, and their opinions could not be ignored.

Right now, what gave the emperor the biggest headache was the fierce debate that had arisen from this.

At first, it was a heated dispute over whether to suppress or appease the rebels. Gradually, it turned into a concentrated attack on Xiong Mingyu and Zhou Yanru. Snowflakes of impeachment memorials piled up on his desk.

Xiong Mingyu was one thing, but Zhou Yanru was a capable administrator, an indispensable figure in the cabinet who could handle affairs and share his burdens. Now, because of his connection to Sun Yuanhua, the memorials were all aimed at Zhou Yanru. It was through Zhou Yanru’s maneuvering that Sun Yuanhua had become the governor of Dengzhou and Laizhou, and Sun Yuanhua had gifted Zhou Yanru with sable furs, ginseng, and other Liaodong specialties. These were no secrets to the emperor, who controlled the Eastern Depot and the Embroidered Uniform Guard.

“The ministers say they want to punish Sun Yuanhua, but their real target is surely Zhou Yusheng,” he thought to himself. A suspicion arose in his mind: could this be a matter of factional strife? The emperor’s greatest taboo was “factionalism.”

But the recent barrage of impeachments against Zhou Yanru had gradually shaken his original trust in this Grand Secretary.