China, Korea & Japan at War, 1592–1598: Eyewitness Accounts [1 ed.] 1138603163, 9781138603165

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China, Korea, and Japan at War, 1592–1598

The East Asian War of 1592 to 1598 was the only extended war before modern times to involve Japan, Korea, and China. It devastated huge swathes of Korea and led to large population movements across borders. This book draws on surviving letters and diaries to recount the personal experiences of five individuals from different backgrounds who lived through the war and experienced its devastating effects: a Chinese doctor who became a spy; a Japanese samurai on his first foreign expedition; a Korean gentleman turned refugee; a Korean scholar-diplomat; and a Japanese Buddhist monk involved in the atrocities of the invasion. The book outlines the context of the war so that readers can understand the background against which the writers’ lives were lived, allows the individual voices of the five men and their reflections on events to come through, and casts much light on prevailing attitudes and conditions, including cultural interaction, identity, cross-border information networks, class conflict, the role of religion in society, and many others aspects of each writer’s world. J. Marshall Craig completed his doctorate at the University of Oxford.

Asian States and Empires Edited by Peter Lorge Vanderbilt University

For a full list of available titles please visit: www.routledge.com/Asian-Statesand-Empires/book-series/SE900 The importance of Asia will continue to grow in the twenty-first century, but remarkably little is available in English on the history of the polities that constitute this critical area. Most current work on Asia is hindered by the extremely limited state of knowledge of the Asian past in general, and the history of Asian states and empires in particular. Asian States and Empires is a book series that will provide detailed accounts of the history of states and empires across Asia from earliest times until the present. It aims to explain and describe the formation, maintenance and collapse of Asian states and empires, and the means by which this was accomplished, making available the history of more than half the world’s population at a level of detail comparable to the history of Western polities. In so doing, it will demonstrate that Asian peoples and civilizations had their own histories apart from the West, and provide the basis for understanding contemporary Asia in terms of its actual histories, rather than broad generalizations informed by Western categories of knowledge. 14 Rethinking Prehistoric Central Asia Shepherds, Farmers and Nomads Claudia Chang 15 Tropical Warfare in the Asia- Pacific Region, 1941–45 Kaushik Roy 16 Early Modern East Asia War, Commerce, and Culture Exchange Edited by Kenneth M. Swope and Tonio Andrade 17 The Collapse of China’s Later Han Dynasty, 25–200 ce The Northwest Borderlands and the Edge of Empire Wicky W. K. Tse 18 China, Korea, and Japan at War, 1592–1598 Eyewitness Accounts J. Marshall Craig

China, Korea, and Japan at War, 1592–1598 Eyewitness Accounts

J. Marshall Craig

First published 2020 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2020 J. Marshall Craig The right of J. Marshall Craig to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-1-138-60316-5 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-46910-7 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Wearset Ltd, Boldon, Tyne and Wear

To peace between China, Korea, and Japan 韓中日의 平和를 祈願하며 日中韓の平和を祈って 祈祷中日韩永久和平

Contents

List of figures List of maps Preface Acknowledgements Stylistic conventions Prologue: witnesses to the largest conflict of the sixteenth century

viii

ix

x

xii

xiv

1

1

Warning of the tsunami to come: Xu Yihou, patriot in exile

22

2

Glory in defeat: Yoshino Jingozaemon, warrior of Japan

40

3

Between a tiger and wolves: Oh Hŭimun, refugee in his

own land

61

4

When peace broke: Hwang Shin, intrepid ambassador

81

5

Descent into hell: Keinen, reluctant invader

105

6

A world connected: Oh Hŭimun, one among many

127

7

Post war: stories retold, countries reimagined

147

Epilogue: the war of 1592–1598 and national identity

166

Index

185

Figures

0.1 0.2 1.1 3.1 4.1 5.1 5.2 7.1

Statue of Admiral Yi Sunshin, Seoul Mimizuka, Kyoto Shimazu memorial to the fallen Swaemi rok manuscript Tong sa rok manuscript Chōsen hinikki manuscript Anyōji – Keinen’s temple Grave of Toyotomi Hideyoshi

2

4

23

63

86

108

120 148

Maps

0.1 Map showing China, Korea, and Japan, 1592–1598. Ming administration extended to Liaodong, where it shared a frontier, rather than a strictly demarcated border, with the Jurchen 1.1 Map showing the location of Wan’an county in Ming China’s Jiangxi province, Xu Yihou’s probable birthplace 2.1 Map showing Japanese and Ming Chinese military movements within the Korean peninsula in 1593 and the location of Pusan, in the harbour of which Yoshino wrote his diary, known as Yoshino nikki 3.1 Map showing the location of Changsu, where Oh Hŭimun’s brother-in-law was the local official and initially provided him with daily reports of the developing situation 4.1 Map showing the route taken by the Chosŏn ambassadors Hwang Shin and Pak Hongjang, who, in August 1596, sailed from Pusan to Sakai, in order to finalize peace terms with Hideyoshi in the nearby Japanese capital, Kyoto 5.1 Map showing the route taken by Keinen, who, in the summer of 1597, set out from his hometown of Takedazu to follow the invading Japanese forces to the Korean peninsula 6.1 Map showing Japanese and Ming Chinese military movements in 1597 and the location of P’yŏnggang in Chosŏn’s Kangwŏn province, where Oh Hŭimun and his family sought refuge

9 23

43 65

84 109 128

Preface

Soon after setting out as a student of East Asian history, I observed that I and many others in the field began researching a particular topic motivated not by pure interest but by a desire to prove something specific. To be more exact, we were moved by a desire to disprove some perceived misconception. Research with such an aim resulted in excited exegeses invariably showing how what others had considered black or white was in fact neither, but rather a shade of grey. Given that this can safely be said of any subject, the real value of the research lay not in the grand claims of breakthrough nor straw men laid to waste, but in the stories the researcher had unearthed along the way. I first became interested in people’s visions of China, Korea, and Japan because I was struck by the power of nationalist feeling among Chinese, Korean, and Japanese peers whom I encountered. My natural interest in history and blossoming passion for Classical Chinese led me to look at writings from the past to see how people might have seen East Asia differently in earlier times. Part of me was seeking to undermine present-day nationalism by helping to prove how its projections onto the past were unjustified. Before long I fell upon the Romance of the Three Kingdoms (Sanguo yanyi 三國演義), a tale or tales which have enjoyed huge popularity in China, Korea, and Japan for hundreds of years. The Classical Chinese text begins with the famous line, ‘It is the great tendency of the Realm, that long divided it must unite, and long united it must divide’ (天下大勢 分久必合 合久必分). The implicit territorial continuity of ‘the realm’ deeply intrigued me, given all the times in history when multiple kingdoms had fought over what we now consider China. What was the essence perceived to keep ‘China’ together? I came to appreciate that this view of continuity and assured unity reflected the particular context of the Ming dynasty (1368–1644), when that version of the Romance of the Three Kingdoms was written. This is the same context in which the war of 1592–1598 unfolded: a time when contemporary unity meant previous division and complexity could be forgotten, and unified, continuous visions of China, Korea, and Japan could be confidently set forth. Even in my undergraduate study of the Three Kingdoms, what I was seeking to disprove had subtly shifted. Having been initially inspired to action by simplistic nationalist narratives, now I was exercised by what I saw as the exoticization in the

Preface xi Western academe of the ‘Chinese World Order’ and its universalist rhetoric. I felt there was too literal an interpretation of the term I translated above as ‘the realm’ in its original sense of ‘all under heaven’. While such universalist rhetoric was seen as artificial, it seemed to me little less artificial than the opposite rhetoric of equality of states common in our own time. I mused over whether it was not just as ludicrously at odds with reality to pretend that Pacific Island nations of only a few thousand people are equal in status to the United States of America, the most powerful state ever to have existed. As was rightly pointed out to my younger self by wiser scholars, a literalist interpretation of the Chinese World Order was largely a straw man which I had erected to tear down: many historians had already shown us a more nuanced picture. My efforts had not been in vain, however, because they had led me to the first sources studied in this book. Sage advice did not deter me from erecting yet another straw man: the insistence that Chinese, Korean, or Japanese identities were not relevant before the nineteenth century. In an amusing reversal of my initial drive to disprove, once within Western academia I saw there was little need to challenge nationalist visions of the past, as these had already been dismissed; instead, I found myself fighting against what seemed to me to be an equal and opposite reaction to nationalist history: the view that there could not have been Chinese, Korean, or Japanese identities before the nineteenth century. I was once again guilty of exaggerating the absolutist position of my ‘opponents’, but I continued to be spurred to action by things I read or heard – for example, when someone suggested that even in the context of the East Asian War of 1592–1598, Chinese literati in a particular southern province would identify themselves as from that province or as an educated man, but not as Chinese. It struck me that this idea was not supported by the primary sources, and probably came from an a priori assumption that something which at all resembles ‘national’ identity simply could not have been relevant in earlier times. It seems to me that the identity of the notional southern Chinese literatus was manifold, at once incorporating his locality, his class and education, and – in the context of interaction with foreigners – his affiliation with China. My indignant attacks of straw men gradually gave way to appreciating that several studies have already given us more nuanced pictures of how ideas about China, Korea, and Japan developed over time. Fortunately for me, in the meantime I had uncovered sources with valuable new individual perspectives on the war and the countries involved. I still believe that historical collective identities in China, Korea, and Japan remain understudied (with some important exceptions), in part due to those identities’ ‘guilt by association’: it remains difficult to discuss anything resembling ‘national’ identity in earlier periods. This is why the epilogue of this book returns to the question of how we relate what we see in the war of 1592–1598 to national identity. The joy of working with primary sources is that, given enough time (and nudges from wiser scholars), they reveal to you their inherent richness even if you initially approached them with a narrow agenda. In my experience, the more one lets go of one’s agenda, the more one appreciates all that the sources have to say. It is in that spirit that this book places the fascinating personal stories from the war front and centre – hopefully relatively unfettered by debate on their particular shade of grey.

Acknowledgements

Over the years of research that led to this book, innumerable people have given me help and encouragement. Thinking back, I am grateful to everyone, from the stranger in a Beijing library who leaned over to point out a character error in my undergraduate research notes, to those who have provided critical advice over years. People all over the world have offered help, simply from the kindness of their heart. May my many benefactors forgive me for not being able to name them all here. At the outset, I wish to acknowledge that the project culminating in this book has been funded by the Arts and Humanities Research Council, the Korea Foundation, the Leverhulme Trust, the Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation, the Stanley Ho scholarship at Pembroke College, Oxford, the Davis Fund in the Faculty of Oriental Studies, Oxford, and the School of Oriental and African Studies. Publication was completed under the auspices of the European Research Council Starting Grant (758347) project ‘Aftermath of the East Asian War of 1592–1598’. Looking further back, I would not have been inclined to carry or capable of carrying out the research I have, had it not been for the mentoring of my school teachers. I have fond memories of the late Mr Dennis Topen, who first inspired my interest in history and its critical reading. I would like to have sent him a copy of this book. During my undergraduate studies at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) in London, Ms Lik Suen 宣力, Dr Tian Yuan Tan 陳靝沅, and Prof. Andrew Lo 盧慶濱 taught me Classical Chinese, my passion for which helped lead me to this topic. Prof. Michel Hockx helped convince me to continue academic study. When I was still wandering through the SOAS library pondering what to make the subject of my BA dissertation, Prof. Olivia Milburn put copies of Samuel Hawley’s The Imjin War and Chosŏn prime minister Ryu Sŏngnyong’s 柳成龍 (1542–1607) diary into my hands. Prof. Milburn was later to supervise my dissertation on Ming involvement in the war. After an interview with Prof. Timothy Brook inspired me to pursue further study at Oxford, it was Prof. Hilde de Weerdt who guided my first attempts to plan my research and secured the funding for me that made my continued

Acknowledgements xiii research possible. During my Masters studies, Dr Peter Ditmanson was also a regular provider of sage advice. Dr Laura Newby and Dr Mark Strange examined my early doctoral work and gave me a much-needed nudge when I was at risk of drifting off course. Two of my DPhil supervisors, Dr James Lewis and Prof. Barend ter Haar, both offered patient advice, encouragement, and professional support. In the final stages of my doctorate, I was grateful for the help of Prof. Remco Breuker and Prof. Dr Marion Eggert, who flew specially from Leiden and Bochum to discuss my thesis, as well as Dr Jennifer Guest, who advised on Japanese translations. I would also like to thank Prof. Rebekah Clements, head of the Aftermath project in Barcelona, and Mr Peter Sowden, my Routledge editor, for their help in the final production of this book. As I began to dig deeper into a vast subject, spanning multiple countries, languages, and bodies of literature, many more senior scholars were incredibly generous with their help. My bookshelf is populated with research kindly given me by Prof. Kitajima Manji 北島万次, Prof. Han Myung-gi 韓明基, and Prof. Kim Shiduck 金時德. Prof. Kitajima also shared with me sources collected over a lifetime. Prof. Sajima Akiko 佐島顕子 particularly helped me in my contextualization of Hwang Shin’s 黃慎 diary (Chapter 4). Prof. Murai Shōsuke 村井章介 kindly welcomed me in his seminars on Classical Japanese texts. An invaluable period of research in Tokyo was made possible by my host at the Institute for Advanced Studies on Asia, Prof. Oki Yasushi 大木康. While based there collecting sources, I became indebted to many people at the university and at archives around the country. Among these was Mr Hirose Yūichi 廣瀬雄一 at the Nagoya Castle Museum, who granted me access to the Tong sa rok manuscript (Figure 4.1), and the Reverend Andō Ryushin 安藤隆伸, abbot at Anyōji temple 安養寺, who graciously showed me the original manuscript of Keinen’s 慶念 diary (Figure 5.1) – at a meeting facilitated by my resourceful friend Ms Satō Mika 佐藤美香. It would be truly impossible to list all those who have provided me with moral support and wise advice during the course of my research. I reserve special mention for my peers at the University of Oxford and the University of Tokyo, who provided both camaraderie and criticism over many years, and for my current companions in the Aftermath project in Barcelona. Last and certainly not least, for the support of my family I am truly grateful. My sisters and especially my parents have provided a huge amount of help and encouragement. My long-suffering wife was unfailingly supportive, even as I disappeared across the world to rummage through archives or enthused at the dinner table about what Chosŏn families ate 400 years ago. This book would not exist were it not for her patience and support. Above all, I am grateful to have met and worked with so many inspiring people through the course of my research, and to have found such fascinating material. I hope that sharing some of what I have found will help others in their own journeys of interest and discovery. Marshall Craig November 2019, by Lake Geneva, Switzerland

Stylistic conventions

On Romanization Romanization of Chinese, Korean, and Japanese words follows the Hanyu pinyin, McCune-Reischauer, and Revised Hepburn systems respectively. Exceptions are made where another spelling is already well-established in English, e.g. Seoul (not Sŏul). In citations of Classical Chinese and Japanese text, uncommon manuscript variants have been replaced with standardized character forms; modern simplified forms are not adopted.

On dates For simplicity, all dates given in this book are the original lunar calendar dates recorded in the relevant primary sources. No dates have been converted to the Gregorian calendar or otherwise adjusted, e.g. to align Japanese and Ming/ Chosŏn dating. This approach is intended to make cross-reference with the majority of primary sources easier (European primary sources being far fewer).

Prologue Witnesses to the largest conflict of the sixteenth century

In 1592, the Japanese leader Hideyoshi launched one of the largest amphibious invasions in history. Landing in Korea, his ambition was no less than to conquer the great empire of China. What followed was the single largest military conflict anywhere in the world in the sixteenth century, with hundreds of thousands deployed on both sides and millions more people affected. Such a war involving all three countries was unparalleled in the region in the three centuries before or after.1 Though about a war, this book is not a military history. The following chapters tell the stories of individuals who lived through this momentous series of events, individuals whose accounts give us a glimpse of what this meeting of China, Korea, and Japan meant to those who experienced it.

Never-ending stories On the eve of the 1592 invasion, de facto ruler of Japan Toyotomi Hideyoshi is said to have made a visit to a shrine that was potent with meaning: he went to pay his respects to the legendary Empress Jingū 神功皇后, who was believed to have successfully conquered Korea over a millennium before.2 Hideyoshi’s visit to the shrine both invoked bygone Japanese glory and offered justification for the imminent campaign. It did not matter that, at the time Empress Jingū was alive, Japan and Korea had not existed in any sense resembling the two states as they now were in 1592, or that people and culture and language had all changed almost beyond recognition in the interim: in that moment, Hideyoshi was part of the same living story of Japan and Korea as Empress Jingū. Around the same time, a Japanese monk delivered an ultimatum from Hidey­ oshi to the kingdom of Chosŏn on the Korean peninsula. Having imbibed a little too much of his host’s wine, he began to claim that, should Chosŏn be invaded, it would be no more than just retribution: the Koreans had been party to the Mongol invasions of Japan three centuries earlier, in 1274 and 1281. Those famous invasions had been repelled by the storms known as kamikaze 神風 (divine winds). Though they had taken place a century before Chosŏn was estab­ lished, they had evidently not been forgotten, instead becoming another chapter in the long story of Japan, Korea, and China.

2

Prologue

Over 400 years after Hideyoshi’s invasion of 1592, the great war that ensued is itself now remembered in China, Korea, and Japan as a very real part of those countries’ on-going stories. When Chinese forces entered the Korean War in 1950, historians were quick to point out this was not the first time the Chinese had gone to the aid of their Korean brethren. The Republic of Korea, established after the end of Japanese occupation in 1945, chose an admiral who died leading his men to victory against the Japanese in 1598 to become one of the two great­ est national heroes immortalized in towering statues at the centre of the capital (Figure 0.1).3 The old and the new continue to be woven together in neverending stories, as the war of 1592–1598 inspires a seemingly endless stream of popular histories, novels, films, television series, and computer games. Amidst modern-day remembering and imagining, what the events of that time meant to those who lived through them is easily lost. This book seeks to pare back the stories being told today to investigate how people saw the great war of 1592–1598 between China, Korea, and Japan at the time. The examples of Hidey­ oshi and the Japanese monk offer intriguing glimpses into what the war may have meant to those participating in it. In this book we will see that Hideyoshi and the monk were not exceptions: people from all three countries used stories about China, Korea, and Japan to understand the war and their places in it. This book looks at the first-hand accounts of people from Ming-dynasty China, Chosŏn-dynasty Korea, and the Japanese islands as they lived through

Figure 0.1 Statue of Admiral Yi Sunshin 李舜臣 (1545–1598) in Gwanghwamun Square, Seoul. Source: Photograph: Seoul Metropolitan Fire & Disaster Headquarters, 2011.

Prologue

3

the most momentous event of their age – a unique insight into events as they unfolded, over 400 years ago. Coming from very different backgrounds, these accounts are invaluable sources, giving us vivid glimpses into each author’s experiences of these tumultuous years, as well as their vision of the world in which these events played out.

Alternative perspectives on a major historical moment By the end of the sixteenth century, almost 100 years of civil warfare in Japan were coming to an end, as Toyotomi Hideyoshi 豐臣秀吉 (c.1537–1598) had risen above his rivals. Yet whether it was that peace could not sate the appetite of a system geared for war, or that an intoxicated conqueror could not tame his lust for ever wider recognition, war was soon to spill on to the continent.4 On Hideyoshi’s orders, a Japanese army descended on the Korean port of Pusan in the fourth month of 1592, with a mission of no less than the conquest of China. The first few months of the campaign were as Hideyoshi had boasted they would be: the Japanese commanders exploded up the peninsula with apparent ease. By 1593, however, allied Ming-Chosŏn forces had reversed the Japanese advance. Groups wishing for a speedy peaceful resolution emerged on both the Chinese and Japanese sides, and fighting was replaced for a time by uneasy negotiations.5 These finally broke down in 1596, and Hideyoshi vented his frustration by ordering a second, punitive invasion in 1597, unleashing a new wave of violence and pillag­ ing. The Japanese invaders had largely been defeated when in 1598 a group of regents recalled the remaining troops after Hideyoshi’s death from illness. Seven years after the terrible storm had broken, the clouds finally parted and the region returned once again to relative peace. Modest monuments to the dead erected in Japan, such as the one shown in Figure 0.2, seemed to betray an awkward aware­ ness of just how destructive, and how ultimately futile, this great war had been. The impact of those seven years of war on East Asia cannot be overstated. The arrival of first one and then two foreign armies in Chosŏn led quickly to widespread famine followed by epidemic disease, such that corpses lined the roads even in areas the invading army had not reached. The Japanese armies carried out systematic annihilation of entire cities,6 and engaged in human traf­ ficking en masse; the latter resulted in huge cross-border population movement.7 Meanwhile, the invading soldiers and their army of hapless conscripts also suffered heavy losses from disease, starvation, incessant guerrilla attacks, and the bitter Korean winters. The huge cost of the war was felt all the way from the Japanese mainland in the east to the Chinese heartlands in the west, as the burden of supplying expeditionary forces strained economic and social capacity to its limits.8 The region returned to ostensible peace, almost as if the war had never happened, but under the surface nothing was the same. As with so many wars – past and present – what started as the arrogance and mutual ignorance of a few people in power grew into a storm that engulfed millions. While the story of how the courts of the Ming, Chosŏn, and Hideyoshi, and their representatives interacted with each other has been told and re-told, the

4

Prologue

Figure 0.2 Mimizuka 耳塚 (‘Mound of Ears’) in Kyoto, Japan. In spite of its name, Mimizuka is a burial mound for noses brought from Korea. Noses were pre­ served and shipped to Japan as ‘proof’ of the tally of enemies killed, for which Japanese lords could claim rewards. It is estimated that in total between one and two hundred thousand noses were shipped to Japan between 1592 and 1598. Source: Photograph: author, 2013.

perspectives of those beyond these centres of power have received much less attention. We are fortunate, however, that an abundance of first-hand accounts and writings from 1592–1598 have survived in China, Korea, and Japan. This book taps into that treasure trove, recounting the war not as a grand narrative but through the experiences of individuals, as told in their own words: an enslaved Chinese doctor who became a spy known across three countries, a samurai on his first foreign expedition, a Korean gentleman turned refugee, a Korean scholar-diplomat who was present at the dramatic collapse of the peace negoti­ ations, and a Japanese Buddhist monk forced to join an army committing atro­ cities before his eyes. These men’s stories are translated from Classical Chinese and Japanese and narrated in English for the first time.9 The diverse experiences of these writers, some of whom inhabited radically different worlds from each other, give us a much more multi-faceted view of what was an immense and complex set of events – while sometimes revealing surprising points in common. The war was a truly regional event, not a national one, which is why the writers are chosen from all three countries. The fact that they were writing even as the war went on is also important. It means there is an

Prologue

5

immediacy to what they write that resonates: we are better able to understand how they came to think what they did. It also allows us to trace how what these people with direct experience reported changed with time and over space, as people back in the capital or writers after the war interpreted in their own way the first-hand accounts. This book is therefore not so much a history of the war as of the ways people experienced and thought about it. A question of us and them In reading this range of eye-witness accounts, the particular interest of this book is in how the writers and wider populations viewed the countries in the name of which the war was fought. What did the labels of ‘Chinese’, ‘Korean’, and ‘Japanese’ signify for people and why?10 We can look at the impact of the 1592–1598 conflict in many ways, but one of its most powerful aspects was the explosion of interaction and movement across borders, on a scale and intensity not seen for centuries before or after. Amidst the violence, there was exchange of people, ideas, language, technology, and objects – even cuisine.11 It has long been observed that it is at the frontiers between groups that ideas of identity are most often formed, and war can foster the ultimate hardening of ‘us’ and ‘them’.12 For the majority of people at the time, and many of the writers, this was their first real experience of the foreign. With this in mind, how did people’s experiences shape their views? What ideas or narratives about China, Korea, Japan and their peoples did they draw on to explain what was happening? Where did individuals’ viewpoints diverge and what did they share in common? The following chapters will show how the disparate individual accounts pre­ sented here are at once personal stories and the stories of meetings between China, Korea, and Japan, as seen from very different perspectives. This book explores how inherited traditions, intense cross-border communication, and direct experience combined to shape people’s visions of China, Korea, and Japan and their popula­ tions. It is striking as soon as one begins to read writings of the time, just how little people of the three countries knew about each other in 1592.13 Though it is odd to describe something violent in this way, the war of 1592–1598 that we see through the accounts in this book is in many ways a process of mutual discovery, of people in China, Korea, and Japan learning about their neighbours and thinking about their own country. How much of what was learned was actually remembered is another question, to which we will turn in Chapter 7. In pursuing these particular questions, this book is taking a different approach to most studies of the war. Most attention has been given to military history and to the interactions of China, Korea, and Japan at a diplomatic level. In this context, how people in the three countries saw the war is inseparable from the court and key generals, as well as the East Asian tradition of hierarchical rela­ tions known as the Chinese World Order or tributary system. These are all important parts of the war (and are introduced below as vital context), but they do not tell the whole story. This book seeks to complement existing histories with a different choice of perspectives and questions.

6

Prologue

This book also differs from many of the English-language accounts of the war in particular by focusing exclusively on primary sources. Previous studies have often drawn on the rich and colourful accounts of the war offered by secondary sources from the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries, but those sources come from different times and so have their own stories to tell. Separating out wartime records from later retellings can reveal quite different accounts of events from those passed down to us, as we will see in Chapter 7. Samuel Hawley’s The Imjin War: Japan’s Sixteenth-Century Invasion of Korea and Attempt to Conquer China (first published 2005), is a popular account of the war that includes an impressively diverse range of individual stories from the conflict. Stephen Turnbull’s The Samurai Invasion of Korea 1592–98 is a similarly accessible and well-illustrated account. Kenneth Swope’s A Dragon’s Head and a Serpent’s Tail: Ming China and the First Great East Asian War, 1592–1598 (2009) contributed to our understanding of the war by re-evaluating the Ming’s role, repudiating for example the narrative of an ineffectual emperor and a dynasty in decline, and by demonstrating the impact of technology, such as Ming heavy cannon, on the course of events. Swope also helped to dispel some long-enduring myths, such as the Japanese only having retreated because Hideyoshi died. The collection of essays The East Asian War, 1592–1598: Inter­ national Relations, Violence and Memory (2015), edited by James B. Lewis, greatly broadened the English-language discussion of the war, as it brought together studies of a wide range of themes by leading scholars on the war, from Korea and Japan in particular. There is of course much more scholarship on the war in Korean, Japanese, and Chinese, to which this book owes a great debt.14 Alongside the dedicated studies of the war in English, there have been several translations of important historical sources from the war over the years, such as one of the Chosŏn prime minister’s memoir, Chingbi rok 懲毖錄 (trans. ‘The Book of Corrections’, 2002), and in 2013 the Chosŏn scholar-official Kang Hang’s diary of his internment in Japan.15 These translations are similar to the approach taken by this book in so far as they allow the reader to see the war from the perspective of people who lived through it. In terms of theme, this book is closest to JaHyun Kim Haboush’s work, edited and published posthumously as The Great East Asian War and the Birth of the Korean Nation (2016). Haboush was the first to directly address the question of identity and individuals’ relationships with the country in such depth. Looking at Chosŏn Korea, rather than Japan or China, Haboush argued that a new sense of shared identity was born out of the Japanese invasions. Haboush’s study is the first thorough exploration of whether the Chosŏn sense of identity during the war was a ‘national’ one, tackling such questions as whether all parts of society were seen as participants in a national community. The ‘national’ question is an important one, as discussion of nations dominates our understanding of collective identity. To what extent the sources from the war show us Chinese, Korean, and Japanese national identities, also has bearing on how we see these identities in the longer span of East Asian history and the wider context of world history. National identity has therefore been given a

Prologue

7

dedicated chapter at the end of this book. It has been separated from the body chapters lest questions of definition and comparability distract from the sub­ stance of contemporary viewpoints. The focus of this book is first and foremost the eyewitness accounts themselves.

Dramatis personae The core of this book is the experience and writings of the individuals whose worlds we will enter in the subsequent chapters. Their tales are arranged chrono­ logically, so that we progress with the wider flow of events as we move between the different protagonists. Xu Yihou, patriot in exile Xu Yihou was a civilian of no historical significance, but when he felt moved to warn the Chinese court of the imminent Japanese invasion, he was thrust into regional prominence, with his name on the lips of those in power across three countries. Xu was captured off the coast of China and taken to Japan as a slave before the war. On the eve of the invasion, he smuggled a letter warning of the attack, which reached Beijing before circulating more widely and later entering the history books. His letter draws on his twenty years’ experience of Japan to explain the country and its people to a Ming court wholly ignorant of them. Chapter 1 explores why Xu wrote the letter and subsequently continued to risk his life to act as a spy for the Chinese, as well as how people in China, Korea, and Japan reacted to him. It points to the informational disconnect between China-Chosŏn and Japan and the implied arrogance of both sides. Yoshino Jingozaemon, warrior of Japan The first invasion of 1592 came on Chosŏn like a storm, and Yoshino Jingoza­ emon was at the forefront of the invading force. The initial attack and Chosŏn’s collapse is usually recounted from the defenders’ perspective, but Yoshino tells, in Chapter 2, how he and his fellow warriors slaughtered soldiers and civilians, such that he reminded himself of the ‘demons of hell’. Yoshino struggles to reconcile his conviction in the superiority of Japanese valour with the reality of the Chinese military might that subsequently forced the Japanese into retreat. The result is a nuanced account, glorifying the invasion even while questioning its wisdom. Yoshino’s account offers a glimpse of how the invaders rationalized and justified their actions. Oh Hŭimun, refugee in his own land A diary covering the best part of a decade, Oh Hŭimun’s Swaemi rok (‘Record of a Refugee’) is possibly the richest source from the war. Oh records the everyday experiences of those anxiously receiving news of the incoming

8

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invasion and fleeing for their lives as destruction swept the peninsula. In Chapter 3, through Oh’s eyes we see both how the Japanese and then Chinese appeared to the local population, but also how disease, starvation, and banditry plagued the country, and how normal life continued in between: marriage, enter­ tainment and outings, and difficult slave-owner and slave relations. Oh’s account provides a contemporaneous counter-point to each of the other perspectives in the book. The key points drawn from the study of his diary are the sheer level of destruction in Korea, the fear and uncertainty in which events unfolded, and the mixture of admiration and hatred with which the inhabitants of Korea met the Chinese army that came to Chosŏn’s aid. Hwang Shin, intrepid ambassador Chosŏn ambassador Hwang Shin’s voyage to Japan with the Ming embassy came at the mid-point in the war: the eye of the storm. As well as tracing the breakdown of the peace negotiations that led to renewed conflict, Hwang Shin’s diary gives a detailed account of the alien country and the people who had visited such destruc­ tion on his homeland and yet was so little understood by him and his compatriots. The diary compares cultural norms and value systems in China, Korea, and Japan, while giving insight into regional diversity within those countries. Hwang Shin was both considered and deliberately presented himself as the ideal of Chosŏn mascu­ linity: scholar-official par excellence, calmly leading his men in the face of danger. This provides a revealing contrast with the heroic warrior ideal pursued by Yoshino in his account of his adventure to a foreign land. Keinen, reluctant invader Neither warrior nor official, Keinen was a Buddhist monk coerced into becom­ ing a field chaplain and doctor in the second invasion of Korea, which was ordered by Toyotomi Hideyoshi after the peace negotiations Hwang Shin parti­ cipated in broke down. Keinen describes the violence around him from an entirely different perspective than that of Yoshino before him: he is disgusted and horrified, and highly critical of the samurai. He likens the scenes he wit­ nesses to visions of Buddhist hells. Through his sympathy for those conscripted into the Japanese army, Keinen offers a more complex picture of the invading force than other contemporary sources. His metaphysical view of human conflict seems to transcend the ideas of ‘Japan’, ‘Korea’, and ‘China’. Yet the crucible of battle brings Keinen back to a hardened sense of us and them, and he ultimately draws on the same narrative of Japan as ‘land of the gods’ as Yoshino and other contemporary Japanese chroniclers.

Setting the scene The last part of this chapter gives some historical context to the accounts we will read, in the form of a brief outline of the war and the events that led up to it. Map 0.1 shows the region in which events unfolded.

Prologue

9

Map 0.1 Map showing China, Korea, and Japan, 1592–1598. Ming administration extended to Liaodong, where it shared a frontier, rather than a strictly demar­ cated border, with the Jurchen.

Japan, Korea, and China ante bellum The introductory section above described some of the devastation and turmoil caused by the Japanese invasions of Chosŏn and the ensuing war, but how did the countries come to war, and who was fighting for what? A Chosŏn diplomatic mission had travelled to Japan in 1590 to try to under­ stand the situation, and Japanese representatives had accompanied them back to Chosŏn, but these exchanges did little to lessen the gulf between the outlooks and interests of the two sides.16 After around 100 years of civil war between samurai lords (daimyō 大名), most of Japan had been brought under the nominal control of one man, Toyotomi Hideyoshi. Having risen up from the poorest of families, Hideyoshi had succeeded where all others had failed: one-by-one annihilating or winning oaths of fealty from his opponents. Convinced that nothing could stand in his way, and having heard how coastal towns of scholarly Ming China had been easy pickings for pirate raiders, Hideyoshi pronounced that he would conquer China. Factors such as desire to control trade access probably also influenced Hideyoshi, but personal glory was central to his ambition: he would ‘make his name known throughout the three lands’ (i.e. the known world, represented by India, China, and Japan).17

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Prologue

There is an argument that Chosŏn was originally not of particular interest to Hideyoshi; rather, it happened to be in the way.18 The Korean peninsula offered by far the shortest sea-crossing, could act as an agricultural and conscript base from which to launch the next stage of the campaign, and from the north of the peninsula it is a relatively short distance to Beijing. Hideyoshi determined that it was through Chosŏn that he would conquer China, and he promptly demanded that Chosŏn grant his armies passage. Everything about Hideyoshi, his stated aim, and his demand was at once shocking and repulsive to the Chosŏn court. He had the audacity to challenge the supremacy of the Great Ming empire, under the wing of which Chosŏn was firmly nestled, and he seemed to be threatening war should Chosŏn fail to cooperate. In his claims to power, Hideyoshi was also drawing on Japanese political and religious traditions alien to his audience across the sea.19 This was the beginning of a clash of political cultures, the meeting of two worlds which had been assiduously kept apart up until this point by intermediates in the west of Japan. Previously, these intermediaries were able to translate requests and declarations from one culture to another to avoid conflict.20 It was not possible to translate away the substance of Hideyoshi’s stark demand, however. The Chosŏn court viewed its and Japan’s relationships in the context of what historians have come to call the Chinese World Order. In this system of formal hierarchical relationships, King Sŏnjo’s authority to rule Chosŏn was granted by the Ming emperor, Wanli 萬曆 (r. 1573–1620). The emperor claimed to have received the Mandate of Heaven (天命) (evidenced by his de facto control of the empire), a mandate of universal suzerainty. All states and peoples who would interact with the Ming court had to submit to Ming overlordship. The king of Chosŏn thus nominally applied to the Ming emperor for investiture and grate­ fully received it. Geography leaves Korean rulers little choice but to acquiesce to demands from Beijing, but this was in fact a mutually beneficial arrangement: submission of peripheral rulers augmented Ming imperial authority, while recog­ nition from what the Chosŏn elite considered the centre of civilization strength­ ened the king’s legitimacy in the eyes of his subjects. In fact, Chosŏn official rhetoric sought to position the country as the most civilized of the Ming vassal states, with attainments in literary and material culture recognized as on a par with those in China proper.21 Appreciating this suzerain-vassal relationship between the Ming, or ‘the Celestial Court’, and Chosŏn is a key part of the background to the war, as it was the context for Chinese and Korean diplomacy, demands, and expectations. The Ming and Chosŏn expectation was that Japan must conduct itself within the same framework, which amounted to obediently accepting Japan’s position at the bottom of the interstate order, as a country less civilized than modelsubject Chosŏn. Japan’s relationship with the Ming was far more distant, however, as its separation by the sea allowed it to be. Diplomatic relations had been intermittent and had broken down during the Japanese civil war.22 Both China and Korea had historically been wary in their relations with Japan, because they understood the sea raiders that had plagued their coastlines on and

Prologue

11

off for centuries to be from Japan, and failed to distinguish individual groups of these ‘Japanese raiders’ (倭寇, C. wokou, K. waegu – many were in fact Chinese) from the Japanese state.23 In launching his invasion Hideyoshi was rejecting the Ming claim to universal sovereignty, but he did not reject the hier­ archical logic of the Chinese World Order or even the idea of China’s central position in the world.24 Rather, he proclaimed he would have the Japanese emperor Goyōzei 後陽成 rule from China and have Japanese culture replace Chinese. It was this radical ambition that he conveyed to King Sŏnjo 宣祖 of Chosŏn, a country he saw as subordinate to Japan in the world hierarchy.25 On the eve of the 1592 invasion, despite ample indication of Hideyoshi’s intent, the Chosŏn court remained split on how real the danger was – a split exacerbated by endemic factional strife. Officials could not agree whether to report the Japanese plan to Beijing, with some fearing their diplomatic engage­ ment with Japan might be seen as inappropriate. A state of disbelief seems to have reigned even as efforts were made to strengthen defences. Thus, when the Japanese ships finally appeared on the horizon, Chosŏn had been forewarned but was not truly ready. War and peace The arrival of the Japanese in the fourth month of 1592 was often later depicted as an unstoppable force, but the Japanese commanders were taking a risk. They attacked with a relatively small vanguard, transported in simple vessels – often more fishing boat than warship – and were very vulnerable until they landed. Had the Chosŏn navy responded to the signal fires and reports with a decisive move on the attackers while they were still off shore, the Japanese may have suf­ fered heavy casualties. Instead, Admiral Wŏn Kyun 元均 (1540–1597) held back and ultimately scuttled much of his fleet.26 This failure was a portent of what was to follow. Chosŏn in many ways pos­ sessed a superior navy, with armoured ship designs honed over centuries of fighting against pirates, while samurai fresh from the Japanese civil war were less familiar with sea combat. Yet, taken aback by the scale of the attack, Chosŏn commanders panicked and fled or made poor decisions. There were important exceptions, and one was naval commander Yi Sunshin, who successfully led attacks on the Japanese fleet and oversaw urgent shipbuilding and training, helping to limit Japanese freedom of movement around the coasts. Some consolation at sea could not compensate for the fall one-after-another of Chosŏn strongholds on land. Chosŏn defenders were overwhelmed by the well-rehearsed tactics of the Japanese, who made effective use of new firearms.27 Panic spread with the news of each Japanese victory, causing defenders further up the peninsula to scatter before they even saw the enemy. It was a matter of weeks before Japanese forces had taken the capital, Hansŏng 漢城 (Seoul). Order had collapsed when the king and his court abandoned the city28; riots and pillaging began before enemy soldiers even arrived. We see in the burning of palace buildings popular anger at the court not staying to defend the city.

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Prologue

Tellingly, one of the buildings burnt was the archive which held records of slaves.28 Chosŏn’s oppressive social hierarchy and corvée labour system was arguably a crucial factor contributing to the low morale and desertion that under­ mined the Chosŏn army from the outset. A sense of betrayal inflamed public anger as the Chosŏn court fled again from Pyongyang: a mob tried to block their exit from the city and attacked the queen’s procession.29 As the Chosŏn court retreated north in an increasingly pathetic state, they were firing off desperate pleas for help to Beijing. When the Ming court first heard how swiftly the Japanese were advancing, there were doubts as to whether Chosŏn was not in fact collaborating with the Japanese, and this resulted in a delay. By the time these fears were allayed, it was patently obvious to officials in Beijing that Chosŏn would not be able to resist the Japanese alone. Ming and Chosŏn officials had spent 200 years using florid rhetoric to eulo­ gize the amicable relationship between the two countries: Chosŏn praising the emperor’s immeasurable benevolence; the emperor congratulating the vassal kingdom on its obedience and effective adoption of Chinese culture. Suddenly, the real-world implications of the two countries’ suzerain-protectorate relation­ ship were put to the test. There was extensive debate in Beijing about the need to honour the empire’s commitment to its most faithful vassal – both out of moral duty and a need to maintain its credibility. The Ming also had another considera­ tion. Geography dictates, then as now, that an enemy on the Sino-Korean border is a threat to Beijing, and that a Korean state acting as a buffer is a far more welcome arrangement. On this occasion, the Ming’s obligation as benevolent protector converged with its self-interest – just as, by convenient coincidence, the two meanings of the word Beijing officials used to describe Chosŏn were ‘vassal state’ and ‘defensive fence’.30 As Chosŏn cities and fortifications fell one after another to the Japanese, King Sŏnjo fled until he could flee no further, arriving at Ŭiju 義州 on the border with China. At this point, the king and his court could only look plaintively towards Beijing, waiting anxiously. When it came, the news that the Ming had agreed to send troops was a cause for celebration. King Sŏnjo ordered that the Chinese pronouncement promising aid be copied and distributed as widely as possible, and even that vernacular (i.e. Korean) translations be prepared as well, to ensure all the people heard.31 There was a long delay as Ming forces mobilized and moved towards Chosŏn, but when the main force arrived, it signalled the turning of the tide in the war. A combined Ming-Chosŏn force laid siege to Pyongyang in the first month of 1593. With the help of heavy artillery, the allies swiftly broke the Japanese defence and the Japanese were forced to flee south. Chosŏn jubilation did not last long, however. Perhaps falling victim to hubris, Ming general Li Rusong 李如松 (1549–1598) pursued the retreating Japanese with too much haste and fell into an ambush at Pyŏkchegwan 碧蹄館. Humiliated and shaken, Li Rusong withdrew to Pyongyang and refused to advance again. Ming tactics promptly switched from aggressive attack to pursuing peace. The Japanese also suffered a defeat at the hands of a Korean force at Haengju 幸州.32 Their position

Prologue

13

weakening, they abandoned the capital Hansŏng (though not before slaughtering the inhabitants) and retreated south, seeking to parley. Opinion in Beijing became split between decisive, punitive action against the Japanese and resolving the conflict diplomatically. Minister of War Shi Xing 石星 was chief among the ‘doves’. He chose to believe reports that what the Japanese were really looking for was the right to pay tribute to the Ming (tribute missions simultaneously functioned as trade missions) and was keen to avoid prolonging a very expensive campaign. Shi placed his trust in the previouslyunknown Shen Weijing 沈惟敬, who had some experience in business dealings with the Japanese and promised that he could negotiate an acceptable settlement. Others at court were deeply suspicious of Shen and the peace negotiations remained controversial.33 Throughout the entire peace negotiations, Chosŏn was almost completely sidelined. Ming officials assumed command and control, Korean protestations were ignored, and Korean officials and volunteer commanders were forbidden from attacking the Japanese. The preponderant opinion among Koreans was that the Japanese were not to be trusted, that claims they were seeking to pay tribute were mendacious, and in any case the destruction they had caused – including particularly the desecration of royal tombs – required vengeance. When Shen Weijing arrived to begin negotiations with the Japanese in 1593, Konishi Yukinaga 小西行長 (1555–1600) and his retinue became his chief inter­ locutors. Yukinaga, a Christian whose power base was in the west of Japan, was keen to end the war quickly and see lucrative trade with the continent resume. In what became a complex layering of intrigue, these Chinese and Japanese repre­ sentatives attempted to conceal the huge differences between their leaders’ posi­ tions and cooperate to bring about a peace settlement. Their efforts were a more ambitious version of the sort of mediated diplomacy that went on over centuries. Shen and Yukinaga evidently hoped that leaders on both sides would gradually accept more and more compromises as faits accomplis. To a significant extent, this group of negotiators succeeded in their endeav­ our: the Ming court and Hideyoshi both lowered their expectations over time. Though Hideyoshi had been detailing plans of moving the Japanese emperor (whose strictly ceremonial position he never usurped34) to China just a few months before, the realities of the battlefield seem to have forced him to abandon his grand ambition.35 At a meeting in Nagoya 名護屋 castle, Hideyoshi’s repre­ sentatives relayed his proposed terms for peace, which show him seeking to establish amicable neighbourly relations with the Ming dynasty, and a suzerainvassal relationship with Chosŏn.36 This vision would have been unacceptable to the Ming, which insisted on a hierarchical relationship in which all rulers sub­ mitted to the Ming emperor directly, and Chosŏn’s status must be at least as high as Japan’s. We can see why the negotiators held out hope, however. The Nagoya demands suggested a relinquishment of de facto control of Chosŏn territory, leaving only nominal claims of hierarchy to be satisfied. Though fraught with risk, Shen and Yukinaga hoped that creative translation could overcome the need for both sides to agree on hierarchy. If Hideyoshi’s ego was sufficiently flattered,

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Prologue

he might agree to the withdrawal of Japanese forces from Chosŏn, and all could return to normal. Shen and Yukinaga succeeded in organizing a joint Ming and Chosŏn embassy to Japan in 1596 (concealing from Beijing the fact the Japanese had not yet withdrawn). The plan dramatically failed at the last, critical hurdle, however: rather than agree to a withdrawal from Chosŏn, a furious Hideyoshi doubled down and ordered a fresh invasion of Chosŏn the following year.37 In 1597, Katō Kiyomasa 加藤 清正 (1562–1611) led a renewed, more puni­ tive campaign in Chosŏn. While in 1592 Japanese forces had attempted to estab­ lish sustainable government in the areas they controlled, the second invasion focused on violence and profit: pillaging, collecting enemy noses to send back to Japan for reward, rounding up of slaves. We will see in the Japanese monk Kein­ en’s account of the campaign that it was not only the Koreans and Chinese that suffered from this violence, but large numbers of Japanese conscripted labour­ ers, who were treated no better than the samurai’s enemies. A more determined and better-prepared response from Ming and Chosŏn land and naval forces swiftly contained and reversed the Japanese advance. Almost immediately, it became clear that Japanese conquest of Chosŏn was hopeless so long as the Ming army opposed them, but the allies found dislodging the wellentrenched Japanese extremely difficult. Ming commander Yang Hao grasping defeat from the clutches of victory at the Siege of Ulsan in 1597 prompted tortuous controversy and factional fighting, which lasted throughout 1598. In the end, it was Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s death from illness in autumn 1598 that expedited the final withdrawal of Japanese forces. It was only after all controversy was exhausted that the Ming emperor pronounced final victory, in the fifth month of 1599.38 The above is but an outline sketch of what was a colossal upheaval; it omits countless twists and turns, moments of drama and controversies.39 Most of all, it misses the stories of the people who were involved. The next chapters of this book will return to the level of individuals’ lived experiences. Crossing back and forth across the sea, we will follow the course of the war from the vantage points offered by our eyewitness accounts.

Notes 1 To find a war of comparable scale involving China, Korea, and Japan, one has to look back to the Mongol invasions of the thirteenth century, or forward to the clashes of the nineteenth and twentieth century. Regarding the comparison with other sixteenthcentury conflicts around the world, see Kenneth Swope, A Dragon’s Head and a Ser­ pent’s Tail: Ming China and the First Great East Asian War, 1592–1598 (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2009), 4. 2 Hideyoshi is believed to have made an offering of a valuable sword to Gokōnomiya Shrine 御香宮神社 (Fushimi 伏見, modern-day Kyoto), a shrine dedicated to Empress Jingū, prior to the invasion. The sword, referred to as kinnoshizuki itomaki­ tachi 金熨斗付糸巻太刀, is designated as an Important Cultural Asset (重要文化財) and currently held in the Tokyo National Museum (東京国立博物館). Many sources from the war show a connection being made in Japan between the 1592 invasion and Empress Jingū’s legendary one; for more on this see the chapter on Yoshino Jingozaemon.

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3 A statue to Admiral Yi Sunshin 李舜臣 (1545–1598) impressively surveys Kwanghwamun 光華門 Square in the centre of Seoul (shown in Figure 0.1); further statues of the admiral can be found in prominent positions around the Republic of Korea. Yi Sunshin is in fact ubiquitous: he previously featured on the Republic’s 500 wŏn banknote, no schoolchild can avoid learning about him, and he still looms large in popular culture. In 2014, a film about one of his victories, Myŏngnyang 명량 (‘The Admiral: Roaring Currents’), became the most-viewed and highest-grossing film in South Korean history. 4 Why Hideyoshi launched the war is debated, and multiple credible motivations have been put forward. The main contenders as factors are desire to force open and take control of trade routes, need to provide continued spoils of war to satisfy his vassals, and desire for international recognition. It seems plausible all of these factors helped precipitate the invasion. A combination of hubris and misleading intelligence on China’s strength from former coastal raiders also encouraged Hideyoshi. 5 The cost and difficulty of supply put strain on both the Chinese and Japanese cam­ paigns. In Beijing, Minister of War Shi Xing 石星 (d. 1599) pressed for negotiations after receiving word that Hideyoshi would be satisfied if given vassal status and the right to pay tribute (i.e. to trade). On the Japanese side, commander Konishi Yukinaga 小西行長 (1555–1600) led a group making great efforts to reach a peaceful settle­ ment. As Yukinaga and his relatives were based in the west of Japan and benefited from trade with Chosŏn, they had a vested interest in peaceful relations. They may also have better understood the strength of the enemy, particularly after they were routed by Chinese heavy artillery at Pyongyang in 1593. Regarding Shi Xing and Beijing policy, see Swope, A Dragon’s Head and a Serpent’s Tail, 198–200. For more on the negotiations, see the chapter on Hwang Shin. 6 Extermination of entire cities was a punitive measure, targeted at fortresses that had earlier successfully resisted the Japanese – such as Chinju 晉州 – or at Chosŏn in general. Regarding punishment of Chosŏn, see Sajima Akiko 佐島顕子, ‘Hideyoshi’s View of Chosŏn Korea and Japan-Ming Negotiations’, in The East Asian War: Inter­ national Relations, Violence, and Memory, ed. James Bryant Lewis (Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge, 2015). 7 The sources studied in this book, such as Swaemi rok and Chōsen hinikki, point to abduction on a huge scale. There was also a great deal of cross-border movement with the armies, and both Japanese and Chinese soldiers are known to have even settled down in Chosŏn after the war. For more on abduction, see Naitō Shunpo 内藤雋輔, Bunroku-Keichō no eki ni okeru hirojin no kenkyū 文禄 · 慶長の役における被擄人 の研究 (Research on Abductees in the Bunroku-Keichō Campaign) (Tokyo: Tōkyō daigaku 東京大学, 1976); Kitajima Manji 北島万次, Hideyoshi no Chōsen shinryaku to minshū 秀吉の朝鮮侵略と民衆 (Hideyoshi’s Chosŏn Invasion and the People) (Tokyo: Iwanami shoten 岩波書店, 2012). Regarding the settlement of Chinese and Japanese in Chosŏn, see Adam Bohnet, ‘Ruling Ideology and Marginal Subjects: Ming Loyalism and Foreign Lineages in Late Chosŏn Korea’, Journal of Early Modern History 15, no. 6 (2011): 477–505. 8 For discussion of some of the impact on Ming China of the war effort, see Masato Hasegawa, ‘War, Supply Lines, and Society in the Sino-Korean Borderland of the Late Sixteenth Century’, Late Imperial China 37, no. 1 (June 2016): 109–152. 9 Keinen’s diary Chōsen hinikki has been introduced in English by George Elison, who also translated the opening section. George Elison, ‘The Priest Keinen and His Account of the Campaign in Korea, 1597–1598: An Introduction’, in Nihon kyōikushi ronsō: Motoyama Yukihiko kyōju taikan kinen ronbunshū 日本教育史論叢: 本山 幸彦教授退官記念論文集, ed. Motoyama Yukihiko kyōju taikan kinen ronbunshū henshū iinkai (Kyoto: Shibunkaku shuppan 思文閣出版, 1988), 25–41. Other very short extracts have been translated in different places, such as one of the paragraphs of Yoshino’s diary that we will read, which was translated by Haboush: JaHyun Kim

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Prologue Haboush, The Great East Asian War and the Birth of the Korean Nation, ed. William J. Haboush and Jisoo Kim (Columbia University Press, 2016), 78. ‘China’, ‘Korea’, and ‘Japan’ are used here as English equivalents for the names given to each country at the time. As we will see in studying the texts in this book, it was common in contemporary parlance – in all three countries – to use longestablished names for each country rather than the self-proclaimed names of the poli­ ties at that time. Thus, China was often ‘Zhonghua’ 中華 in China, ‘Tang’ 唐 in Korea, or ‘Kara’ 唐 in Japan, rather than ‘the Great Ming’ 大明. This apparent per­ manent quality to how each country was viewed is one of the themes explored throughout this book. Linguists of our time take 1592–1598 as the delimiter between Middle Korean and Modern Korean, which points to the huge upheaval of the war being so profound as to have a catalytic effect on the evolution of language. The chilli pepper – now ubi­ quitous in Korean cuisine – is thought to have first arrived in the country around this time; we see in Oh Huimun’s diary that his wife takes what appears to be a chillipepper bath (reputed to help with skin conditions) during the war (Oh Hŭimun, ‘Swaemi rok’ 鎻尾錄 (Record of a Refugee) n.d., 乙未 (1595) 8.16, Jangseogak Royal Archives.). Makers of fine pottery were also taken to Japan as part of the slave trade, resulting in production tradition that continues today: see Kitajima Manji, Hideyoshi no Chōsen shinryaku to minshū. For more on cultural exchange, see also Ha Woo Bong, ‘War and Cultural Exchange’, in The East Asian War: International Relations, Violence, and Memory, ed. James Bryant Lewis (Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge, 2015), 323–39. It is undoubtedly in meeting the other that we define ourselves, and this is particularly true in adversarial situations. See, for example: Fredrik Barth, ed., Ethnic Groups and Boundaries (Boston: Little, Brown & Company, 1969), 29; Linda Colley ‘Britishness and Otherness: An Argument’, Journal of British Studies 31, no. 4 (1992): 311. Studies specific to East Asia have also pursued the idea of the frontier as key to defin­ ing identity, for example: Leo Kwok-yueh Shin, The Making of the Chinese State: Ethnicity and Expansion on the Ming Borderlands (Cambridge; New York: Cam­ bridge University Press, 2006); James Bryant Lewis, Frontier Contact between Chosŏn Korea and Tokugawa Japan (London; New York: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003). An important caveat to the generalization of people in each country knowing little about their neighbours is the educated class in Chosŏn, whose education focused on China. Even there, however, we see through Oh Hŭimun’s diary that their knowledge was limited by its being text-based, and the day-to-day lives of Chinese people remained very much a novelty. To mention only a few of the scholars of the war upon whose work this book builds and to whom the author is personally indebted: Han Myŏng-gi 韓明基, Kim Shiduck 金時德, Kitajima Manji 北島万次, Sajima Akiko 佐島顕子. More references can be found throughout this book. Sŏng-nyong Yu, The Book of Corrections: Reflections on the National Crisis during the Japanese Invasion of Korea, 1592–1598 (Berkeley, CA: Institute of East Asian Studies, 2002); JaHyun Kim Haboush and Kenneth R. Robinson, A Korean War Captive in Japan, 1597–1600: The Writings of Kang Hang (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013). For an account of the diplomatic interaction between Chosŏn and Japan leading up to the war, see Etsuko Hae-jin Kang, Diplomacy and Ideology in Japanese-Korean Rela­ tions: From the Fifteenth to the Eighteenth Century (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1997), 83–106. Relevant quotes from Hideyoshi can be seen in Xu Yihou’s report (see Chapter 1) and his pronouncements and attitude are closely examined by Atobe (Atobe Makoto 跡部 信, ‘Toyotomi seiken ki no taigai kankei to chitsujokan’ 豊臣政権期の対外関係と 秩序観 (Foreign Relations and View of the World Order during the Toyotomi

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Government Period). Nihon-shi kenkyū 日本史研究 585 (2011): 56−82). Why Hidey­ oshi launched the war has long been debated, and multiple credible motivations have been put forward. The main contenders as factors are desire to resume official trade with China, need to provide continued spoils of war to satisfy his vassals, and desire for international recognition. It seems plausible all of these factors helped precipitate the invasion. A combination of hubris and misleading intelligence on China’s strength was the context that facilitated Hideyoshi’s decision. While the idea of conquering Chosŏn may not have been a priority for Hideyoshi, it was arguably important for him to continue to provide new land and plunder to reward his followers. In Chapters 2 and 4 we will also consider the important (imagined) historical context of historical Japanese conquest of the peninsula, and Chosŏn’s alleged status as a vassal of Japan. Hideyoshi laid claims to divine birth, for example. The monks drafting Hideyoshi’s official communications with the Ming consciously adapted their messages to be more comprehensible to a Chinese audience, however. For a discussion of Hideyoshi’s legitimating ideology, see Herman Ooms, Tokugawa Ideology: Early Constructs, 1570–1680 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985), esp. 45–50; regarding adaptation of diplomatic messages to different foreign audiences, see Atobe, ‘Toyot­ omi seiken ki no taigai kankei to chitsujokan’. Regarding mediation and deception in Chosŏn-Japan relations prior to the war, see Kenneth R. Robinson, ‘Violence, Trade, and Impostors in Korean-Japanese Relations, 1510–1609’, in The East Asian War: International Relations, Violence, and Memory, ed. James Bryant Lewis (Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge, 2015). The Ming dynasty saw an unprecedentedly close relationship between China and Korea. The Koreans adopted Neo-Confucianism into their state orthodoxy – it has been argued – to a greater extent than the Chinese ever did (Gari Ledyard, ‘Confu­ cianism and War: The Korean Security Crisis of 1598’, Journal of Korean Studies 6 (1989): 83). This meant that they not only looked to China as the source of correct learning, but that they played to the full the role expected of them as a vassal state of the Ming dynasty. In what has been called the zong-fan 宗藩 (suzerain-protectorate) system, China was responsible for protecting Korea and in return Korea had the threefold responsibility of: accepting Chinese interference in its political affairs; asking for the investiture by the Emperor of each of its new rulers; and regularly paying tribute to China. In reality these responsibilities were no burden to Chosŏn at all. Ming interference in Korean affairs was very rare. Imperial investiture was also a welcome source of legitimacy for Korean kings. Tribute to China represented a very profitable trade opportunity for the Koreans, and they went several times a year despite being told this was unnecessary (Wang Qiubin 王秋彬 and Yang Jun 杨军, Zhongguo yu Chaoxian bandao guanxi shi lun 中国与朝鲜半岛关系史论 (On the History of Relations between China and the Korean Peninsula) (Beijing: Shehui kexue wenxian chubanshe 社会科学文献出版社, 2006), 183–184). For a fuller dis­ cussion of the tributary system, see Kenneth M. Swope, ‘Deceit, Disguise, and Dependence: China, Japan, and the Future of the Tributary System, 1592–1596’, The International History Review 24, no. 4 (1 December 2002): 757–782. The classic work on the ‘Chinese World Order’ is John King Fairbank, ed., The Chinese World Order. Traditional China’s Foreign Relations (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1968). Japan’s relations with Korea and China before the war are discussed in Saeki Kōji 佐 伯弘次, ‘Japanese-Korean and Japanese-Chinese Relations in the Sixteenth Century’, in The East Asian War: International Relations, Violence, and Memory, ed. James Bryant Lewis (Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge, 2015), 11–21. Many of those classed as ‘倭寇’ (C. wokou, K. waegu) by Ming and Chosŏn authori­ ties were not in fact of Japanese origin. See discussion and references in Swope, A Dragon’s Head and a Serpent’s Tail, 65.

18

Prologue

24 From the perspective of our present times, hierarchy is a distinguishing feature of historical East Asian inter-state relations. While our modern system pretends to formal equality in status between nations-states of a few thousand people and an unri­ valled global power, the tributary system nominally maintained the unassailable superiority of the central imperial throne even at times when there were credible rival claimants to that position. Provided a tributary state formally submitted to the central imperial power, they enjoyed almost total de facto independence. This implicit flex­ ibility perhaps explains the persistence over centuries of the Chinese World Order (CWO) framework as a mode of inter-state interaction despite huge political changes in the region over time. Regarding hierarchy and for an international relations per­ spective on the CWO, see David C. Kang, East Asia before the West (New York: Columbia University Press, 2010), esp. 29–57. For examples of rival claims to the apex of the hierarchy, see Morris Rossabi, ed., China among Equals: The Middle Kingdom and Its Neighbors, 10th–14th Centuries (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983). 25 Hideyoshi’s letter to Chosŏn proclaiming his intent of conquest is translated in Haboush, The Great East Asian War, 28; see also pp. 73–91 for a discussion of the Japanese policy of colonizing with Japanese customs. Regarding Hideyoshi’s worldview as expressed in diplomatic relations, including the centrality of China and the lower status of Chosŏn, see Atobe Makoto, ‘Toyotomi seiken ki no taigai kankei to chitsujokan’. 26 For reports of Wŏn scuttling his fleet, see for example ‘Sŏnjo sillok’ 宣祖實錄 (Annals of the Sŏnjo Reign) n.d., 1592.6.28(4), National Institute of Korean History. Wŏn Kyun’s record is controversial, and he may not be guilty of many of the accusa­ tions made against him; he was somewhat of a political rival of Admiral Yi Sunshin, and has historically suffered from the apparent contrast with the much-eulogized Yi. One accusation – of drunkenness – is borne out by the sources studied in this book: Oh Hŭimun recorded seeing Wŏn being carried past the Oh home in a drunken stupor by his subordinates. Oh commented that Wŏn was promoted following victories early in the war but had now been moved from a naval to an army position because of his difficult relationship with Yi Sunshin. Oh Hŭimun, ‘Swaemi rok’, 乙未 (1595) 6.19. 27 Chosŏn forces had long prepared for Japanese attack, but were less professional than their opponents and lacked recent experience dealing with the kind of arquebuscentred infantry warfare that the Japanese had developed over decades of civil war on the islands. Recent Chosŏn military experience that had been with the Jürchen in the north, who fought more on horseback, was less applicable. This became evident when Ming forces joined the war and the southern troops, who had developed tactics for fighting Japanese raiders in infantry units, proved much more effective in battle than their northern counterparts, who were accustomed to facing the Jurchen with cavalry. Chosŏn officials quickly recognized this and began importing southern Chinese infan­ try drilling and tactics. More deep-seated issues of social hierarchy and the denigra­ tion of martial practice compared to literary learning were also recognized as unhelpful contributing factors, though these were more difficult to change. For an assessment of Chosŏn military preparations and the reasons for their defeat, see Guil­ laume Carré, Avant la tempête: la Corée face à la menace japonaise 1530–1590 (Paris: Collège de France, 2019); regarding innovation in military tactics, see Tonio Andrade, Hyeok Hweon Kang, and Kirsten Cooper, ‘A Korean Military Revolution?: Parallel Military Innovations in East Asia and Europe’, Journal of World History 25, no. 1 (March 2014): 60–67; for an example of contemporary reflection on sociocultural factors, see King Sŏnjo’s analysis in ‘Sŏnjo sillok’, 1593.10.22(1). 28 For the interesting story of the flight of the Chosŏn court, see Haboush, The Great East Asian War, 27–33. 29 Ibid. at 107. 30 In strategic discussions in Beijing, Chosŏn was often referred to using the word fan 藩, meaning a subordinate fiefdom and a protectorate country, but a word also used in

Prologue

31 32

33 34

35 36 37

38

39

19

the sense of fanli 藩籬 (protective fence) and fanping 藩屛 (screen, to screen). All these uses of the word are recorded as having been used by senior officials in a retro­ spective debate on Chosŏn’s conduct: ‘Sŏnjo sillok’, 1599.2.19(2). Opinions in Beijing varied and factional politics was very much at play; while we may a priori assume a realist motivation, there were also sincere arguments for the need to main­ tain the credibility of the Ming’s promises as suzerain. Ultimately, we must see the Ming intervention as killing two birds with one stone. Haboush, The Great East Asian War, 110. At Haengju, a very small Korean force successfully resisted an attack from far more numerous and very experienced Japanese forces – a much-needed boost to Chosŏn morale. Regarding the siege, see Swope, A Dragon’s Head and a Serpent’s Tail, 167–170. For a full account of Ming politics and strategy, and its evolution, see Swope, A Drag­ on’s Head and a Serpent’s Tail. Hideyoshi had no reason to covet the position of emperor because the office held no real power, but the fact of the emperor’s existence did have great symbolic meaning. Atobe points to the etiquette of Hideyoshi’s diplomatic letters to argue that he and his diplomat monks used Japan’s emperor to project a position of superiority vis-à-vis Chosŏn and other countries. Atobe Makoto, ‘Toyotomi seiken ki no taigai kankei to chitsujokan’, 59–60. Takeda Mariko 武田万里子, ‘Toyotomi Hideyoshi no Ajia chiri ninshiki’ 豊臣秀吉 のアジア地理認識 (Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s Geographical Conception of Asia), Kaijishi kenkyū 海事史研究 67 (2010). Atobe Makoto, ‘Toyotomi seiken ki no taigai kankei to chitsujokan’, esp. 77–8. How exactly the negotiations finally broke down is controversial. This book proposes a different version of events to that given in many previous histories, including the main English language accounts of the war. This version is based on the latest Japa­ nese scholarship on the subject and on close-reading of the Chosŏn ambassadors’ diaries. For more on this question, see Chapter 4 for the ambassadors’ diaries and Chapter 7, which attempts to trace the evolution of narratives after the war. The Ming censor Ding Yingtai 丁應泰, sent to Chosŏn to investigate, accused Yang Hao 楊鎬 (d. 1629) and others of conspiring to conceal the truth (Ulsan was reported as a victory). Factional politics was a factor, with Yang being supported by Zhang Wei 張位 (1538–1605) in Beijing on the one hand, and Yang’s military rivals from the south of China (Yang had served in the north) opportunistically making accusations against him on the other. Yang was relieved of his post and returned to China amidst great protest by the Koreans, who looked on him as their only hope of winning the war. Angered at the Koreans’ defence of Yang, Ding responded with the eyebrow-raising accusation that Chosŏn had in fact invited the Japanese into Korea, in order to help them win back an island in the Yalu River (on the Sino-Korean border), which they resented China claiming as its territory. The accusations flew back and forth for months, but by 1599 the larger part of the Beijing court had come to reject Ding’s reports, Chosŏn was exonerated, and the campaign declared victorious. On many points, the following chapters give more detail. Readers looking for a fuller overview of the war are advised to refer to Swope, A Dragon’s Head and a Serpent’s Tail.

References Andrade, Tonio, Hyeok Hweon Kang, and Kirsten Cooper. ‘A Korean Military Revolu­ tion?: Parallel Military Innovations in East Asia and Europe.’ Journal of World History 25, no. 1 (March 2014): 51–84.

20

Prologue

Atobe Makoto 跡部信. ‘Toyotomi seiken ki no taigai kankei to chitsujokan’ 豊臣政権期 の対外関係と秩序観 (Foreign Relations and View of the World Order during the Toyotomi Government Period). Nihon-shi kenkyū 日本史研究 585 (2011): 56−82. Barth, Fredrik, ed. Ethnic Groups and Boundaries. Boston: Little, Brown & Company. 1969. Bohnet, Adam. ‘Ruling Ideology and Marginal Subjects: Ming Loyalism and Foreign Line­ ages in Late Chosŏn Korea’. Journal of Early Modern History 15, no. 6 (2011): 477–505. Carré, Guillaume. Avant la tempête: la Corée face à la menace japonaise 1530–1590. Paris: Collège de France. 2019. Colley, Linda. ‘Britishness and Otherness: An Argument’. Journal of British Studies 31, no. 4 (1992 г.): 309–329. 1992. Elison, George. ‘The Priest Keinen and His Account of the Campaign in Korea, 1597–1598: An Introduction’. In Nihon kyōiku-shi ronsō: Motoyama Yukihiko kyōju taikan kinen ronbunshū 日本教育史論叢: 本山幸彦教授退官記念論文集, edited by Motoyama Yukihiko kyōju taikan kinen ronbunshū henshū iinkai, 25–41. Kyoto: Shibunkaku shuppan 思文閣出版. 1988. Fairbank, John King, ed. The Chinese World Order. Traditional China’s Foreign Rela­ tions. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. 1968. Ha Woo Bong. ‘War and Cultural Exchange’. In The East Asian War: International Rela­ tions, Violence, and Memory, edited by James Bryant Lewis, 323–39. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. 2015. Haboush, JaHyun Kim. The Great East Asian War and the Birth of the Korean Nation. Edited by William J. Haboush and Jisoo Kim. Columbia University Press. 2016. Haboush, JaHyun Kim, and Kenneth R. Robinson. A Korean War Captive in Japan, 1597–1600: The Writings of Kang Hang. New York: Columbia University Press. 2013. Hasegawa, Masato. ‘War, Supply Lines, and Society in the Sino-Korean Borderland of the Late Sixteenth Century’. Late Imperial China 37, no. 1 (June 2016): 109–152. Hawley, Samuel Jay. The Imjin War: Japan’s Sixteenth-Century Invasion of Korea and Attempt to Conquer China. n.p.: Conquistador Press. 2014. Kang, David C. East Asia Before the West: Five Centuries of Trade and Tribute. New York: Columbia University Press. 2010. Kang, Etsuko Hae-jin. Diplomacy and Ideology in Japanese–Korean Relations: From the Fifteenth to the Eighteenth Century. Basingstoke: Macmillan. 1997. Kitajima Manji 北島万次. Hideyoshi no Chōsen shinryaku to minshū 秀吉の朝鮮侵略 と民衆 (Hideyoshi’s Chosŏn Invasion and the People). Tokyo: Iwanami shoten 岩波 書店. 2012. Ledyard, Gari. ‘Confucianism and War: The Korean Security Crisis of 1598’. Journal of Korean Studies 6 (1989). Lewis, James Bryant. Frontier Contact between Chosŏn Korea and Tokugawa Japan. London; New York: RoutledgeCurzon. 2003. Lewis, James Bryant, ed. The East Asian War, 1592–1598: International Relations, Viol­ ence, and Memory. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. 2015. Naitō Shunpo 内藤雋輔. Bunroku-Keichō no eki ni okeru hirojin no kenkyū 文禄 慶長の 役における被擄人の研究 (Research on Abductees in the Bunroku-Keichō Cam­ paign). Tokyo: Tōkyō daigaku 東京大学. 1976. Oh Hŭimun. ‘Swaemi rok’鎻尾錄 (Record of a Refugee), n.d. Jangseogak Royal Archives. http://yoksa.aks.ac.kr. Ooms, Herman. Tokugawa Ideology: Early Constructs, 1570–1680. Princeton: Princeton University Press. 1985.

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Robinson, Kenneth R. ‘Violence, Trade, and Impostors in Korean-Japanese Relations, 1510–1609’. In The East Asian War: International Relations, Violence, and Memory, edited by James Bryant Lewis. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. 2015. Rossabi, Morris, ed. China among Equals: The Middle Kingdom and Its Neighbors, 10th–14th Centuries. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. 1983. Saeki Kōji 佐伯弘次. ‘Japanese-Korean and Japanese-Chinese Relations in the Sixteenth Century’. In The East Asian War: International Relations, Violence, and Memory, edited by James Bryant Lewis, 11–21. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. 2015. Sajima Akiko 佐島顕子. ‘Hideyoshi’s View of Chosŏn Korea and Japan-Ming Negoti­ ations’. In The East Asian War: International Relations, Violence, and Memory, edited by James Bryant Lewis. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. 2015. Shin, Leo Kwok-yueh. The Making of the Chinese State: Ethnicity and Expansion on the Ming Borderlands. Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press. 2006. ‘Sŏnjo sillok’ 宣祖實錄 (Annals of the Sŏnjo Reign), n.d. National Institute of Korean History. http://sillok.history.go.kr. Swope, Kenneth M. ‘Deceit, Disguise, and Dependence: China, Japan, and the Future of the Tributary System, 1592–1596’. The International History Review 24, no. 4 (1 December 2002): 757–782. Swope, Kenneth M. A Dragon’s Head and a Serpent’s Tail: Ming China and the First Great East Asian War, 1592–1598. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. 2009. Takeda Mariko 武田万里子. ‘Toyotomi Hideyoshi no Ajia chiri ninshiki’ 豊臣秀吉のア ジア地理認識 (Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s Geographical Conception of Asia). Kaiji-shi kenkyū 海事史研究 67 (2010). Turnbull, Stephen R. The Samurai Invasion of Korea 1592–98. Oxford: Osprey Publishing. 2008. Wang Qiubin 王秋彬, and Yang Jun 杨军. Zhongguo yu Chaoxian bandao guanxi shi lun 中国与朝鲜半岛关系史论 (On the History of Relations between China and the Korean Peninsula). Beijing: Shehui kexue wenxian chubanshe 社会科学文献出版社. 2006. Yu, Sŏng-nyong. The Book of Corrections: Reflections on the National Crisis during the Japanese Invasion of Korea, 1592–1598. Berkeley, CA: Institute of East Asian Studies. 2002.

1

Warning of the tsunami to come

Xu Yihou, patriot in exile

Xu Yihou 許儀後 was a person of no historical significance. That is, until the moment in 1591 when, as Hideyoshi secretly rallied his men for invasion, Xu and his friend risked their lives to send a warning to China of the imminent danger. The name of a man whom we would have otherwise never known existed, was suddenly on the lips of leaders in China, Korea, and Japan; his account of Japan and its preparations was to find its way into history books in all three countries in the centuries which followed.1 Xu Yihou was important then and now, because he found himself in a crucial place at a crucial time: he was born in China but had been living in Japan for twenty years when he learned of Hideyoshi’s plan to conquer the Middle Kingdom. Previously considered beyond the pale of civilization by those at the political and cultural centre of Chinese society, the outbreak of war between Japan and China suddenly made Xu’s insights into Japan invaluable in China. Interesting to us now, are both how someone in his position saw China, Korea, and Japan, and what motivated him to risk everything for a country to which he could not expect to return.

Calm before the storm In early 1592 clouds of war were gathering in the east, as Toyotomi Hideyoshi called on the Japanese lords to prepare for an invasion of Korea and China. The Ming government, however, remained blissfully unaware of the looming threat, as they had long ago lost official contact with the Japanese. The courts of Chosŏn (Korea) and the island-kingdom Ryūkyū became aware of Japanese intentions after Hideyoshi – freshly full of hubris having brought the whole of Japan to heel – requested their assistance with the invasion. The Chosŏn court was divided on whether the Japanese would actually invade and hesitated in sending a report to Beijing, while two Chinese men bringing reports from Ryūkyū were not taken seriously by Ming officials.2 The Ming court began to take heed only when in the second month of 1592 a secret report arrived from a Chinese man living in Satsuma, Japan. An unsolicited intelligence report, it gave extensive information on everything from Japanese politics to tactics in the field, and most significantly, insisted that the Japanese were preparing to invade China that spring. The author of this startling secret report was Xu Yihou.

Warning of the tsunami to come 23 Xu Yihou appears to have been a native of Wan’an county in Jiangxi province (Map 1.1) and from a humble background.3 In his report, Xu introduces himself by explaining that he and everyone on board his boat were captured by Japanese pirates twenty years earlier, off the coast of Guangdong province. Like many others from the coastal regions, Xu bitterly remarks, he was taken as a slave to Japan.4 Owing to his knowledge of medicine, however, he won the favour of the lord of Satsuma, Shimazu Yoshihisa 島津義久 (1533–1611) (whose family erected the stele shown in Figure 1.1). It is from this position that

Map 1.1 Map showing the location of Wan’an county in Ming China’s Jiangxi province, Xu Yihou’s probable birthplace.

24

Xu Yihou, patriot in exile

Figure 1.1 Memorial stele erected in 1599 by the House of Shimazu, which Xu Yihou served, dedicated to those ‘on both sides who died in battle in Korea’, in Mount Kōya 高野山, Wakayama. Source: Photograph: author, 2013.

he not only gained access to militarily sensitive information, but – according to his own account, at least – with tearful pleading had been able to convince Hideyoshi to order action against the marauding pirates when he accompanied Yoshihisa to an audience with him.5 Xu’s preoccupation with pirate abductions suggests he was genuinely taken to Japan forcibly, rather than merely making such a claim in order to avoid being accused of breaching the ban on travel abroad, which made him automatically suspect simply for being in Japan.6 Learning of Hideyoshi’s intentions to invade China, Xu twice attempted to send warning to the Ming via trading ship captains, but remained doubtful as to whether or not his messages had arrived. Then, one day, when he visited a Buddhist temple, he by chance encountered a Chinese man that the monks there kept as a scribe. From the man’s speech Xu quickly recognized him as a fellow

Warning of the tsunami to come 25 native of Jiangxi. This man’s name was Zhu Junwang 朱均旺. Originally a merchant, he had been sailing to northern Vietnam to offload ‘excess’ stock when he was captured by pirates and sold to the Satsuma temple.7 Xu arranged for Zhu to enter the lord of Satsuma’s household to copy medical books.8 When confirmation came of Hideyoshi’s plans to invade imminently, Xu says he was desperate to send word. He explains that he himself could not risk flight as his wife and children were with him, but that Zhu agreed to attempt escape and to carry the written report back to China.9 To complement Xu’s written account, we also have the report of the official who questioned Zhu on his arrival in China. Zhu claimed that Hideyoshi had already placed a general ban on Chinese people boarding ships, for fear of news of the planned invasion being leaked, and Shimazu Yoshihisa’s younger brother Yoshihiro 義弘 (1535–1619) refused to let the boat carrying Zhu go until Xu Yihou convinced him that it was only a trading boat and preventing its sailing could harm the all-important trade link with China.10 Despite the difficulties of delivery and initial Ming suspicions, Xu’s report successfully reached Beijing, and the government took it seriously. Perhaps this was because Xu’s was not the first warning the Ming had received, but it was probably also because Xu was articulate. His arguments were clear and his information on Japan detailed. It was the valuable insight he gave – proven true by subsequent events – that resulted in his report spreading so widely. Before we consider the contents of Xu’s report, however, it is worth reflecting on the quite incredible role of spy that Xu seems to have adopted, entirely on his own initiative. For Xu did not stop with his secret report, but appears to have continued to take more and more risks during the remainder of the war.

Loyalty behind enemy lines According to Satsuman records, some time after he sent his secret report Xu Yihou was betrayed, by a ‘person of the Ming’ (明人). Hearing the news, Hideyoshi was furious, apparently ordering that Xu be boiled in a recently forged cauldron. Xu’s master Shimazu Yoshihisa seems to have greatly valued Xu. He asked a favour of Tokugawa Ieyasu 徳川家康 (1543–1616), who on his behalf persuaded Hideyoshi not to execute Xu, arguing that should the news reach other countries it would reflect badly on the Japanese.11 In the end Xu had his chains removed and was released without further punishment.12 From Hideyoshi’s point of view this was an unwise move, as Chinese and Korean sources show that Xu continued in his efforts to aid the Ming defeat the Japanese. As the information Xu provided proved largely accurate, he evidently became a name known to Chinese officials at court and on the battlefronts, as well as to Chosŏn officials.13 When the Ming Minister of War sent a team of spies to Japan they were instructed to seek out Xu and employ him as an agent with the mission of encouraging his master to betray Hideyoshi. In 1593 some of these spies reportedly reached Satsuma and made contact with Xu. Xu is said to have introduced a Ming military official disguised as a merchant to Shimazu Yoshihisa’s

26

Xu Yihou, patriot in exile

most trusted servant, Ijūin Tadamune 伊集院忠棟 (d. 1599)14 In his report, Xu had described Tadamune as sharing the Shimazu brothers’ respect for the Ming, and further as having wished to take his army to Taiwan or the Philippines and watch Hideyoshi’s invasion from the sidelines.15 Politically or militarily, this meeting does not appear to have had any consequences. Nevertheless, if it did indeed take place, then the meeting transformed Xu’s relationship with the Ming from one of unsolicited informant to active agent. The governor (巡撫) of Fujian, Xu Fuyuan 許孚遠 (d. 1594), is recorded as having subsequently sent at least two more missions to Satsuma hoping to make use of Xu to form an alliance with Shimazu against Hideyoshi. Zhu Junwang is recorded as having joined the first of these, which made successful contact with Xu and returned optimistic of a potential alliance.16 Later, near the end of the war, a Chosŏn official who visited Fujian was told by an official there that the new governor of Fujian, Jin Xue 金學 (js. 1565), had sent someone to Satsuma to seek out Xu. This official boasted that Xu was encouraged with a large payment of gold to persuade Shimazu Yoshihisa to withdraw his forces, which Xu did, going in person to Sach’ŏn 泗川 in Chosŏn in 1598 – making the withdrawal of the Japanese indirectly the achievement of Jin Xue.17 At that point in the war Hideyoshi’s death had become known and the Japanese commanders were already keen to withdraw. Other sources suggest it was this fact – combined with short supplies – which sped Shimazu and the others’ withdrawal.18 Nevertheless, there may well be truth in the report that contact was again made with Xu on this occasion. More than once, Xu is reported to have sent further messages to the Ming on his own initiative. According to the Ming spies who claimed to have met with him, Xu was sent to Chosŏn from Satsuma by Yoshihisa when in 1594 an epidemic broke out among Japanese forces on Kŏje Island 巨濟島, and that it was not his first visit to Chosŏn. Military Commissioner for the Ming campaign Song Yingchang 宋應昌 (1536–1606) mentions a further written report from Xu warning of Japanese duplicity in the on-going peace negotiations, and it seems he sent this while in Chosŏn.19 In 1594 a message from Xu reportedly reached the court in Beijing after being relayed via a chain of Chosŏn and then Chinese officials. A Korean man taken captive by the Japanese who escaped back to Chosŏn reported that he had met a man in Japan who had written him a note as follows: I am Xu Yihou, a person of Wan’an county, Ji’an prefecture, Jiangxi province, in the Great Ming. I was captured and brought here in 1570. All the brigands are waiting for the letter from the Celestial Ambassador, and are set to make a complete withdrawal in the eighth month [of this year].20 Xu would of course have been unable to converse with a Korean man, so is said to have written out a message. He would have been very aware of the unreliability of sending a message in such a manner, but – perhaps in desperation – he attempted to use what opportunities presented themselves. While some of the reports of

Warning of the tsunami to come 27 contact with Xu may be false (spies might claim they had succeeded in reaching him when in fact they had not, for example), the sheer range of sources that record them suggests he did remain active as a spy. Though he had left China two decades earlier and was serving the lord of Satsuma, Xu was evidently determined to aid the Ming military effort by providing intelligence, despite huge personal risk. We cannot help but marvel at his determination. What moved this man – seemingly ensconced relatively comfortably in the house of Shimazu, with family by his side and no plan to return to his homeland – to risk everything for China, hundreds of miles across the sea? Later, it seems he may have received gold, but in the first instance the odds against the Ming state trusting him and reaching out to him in Japan hardly compared favourably with the odds on being discovered and boiled in a cauldron. Xu’s choice was in stark contrast to those of other Chinese people who were captured by the Japanese but chose to collaborate in the invasion; when challenged, one such individual said ‘what choice do I have?’21 Xu’s actions in his own words Xu directly addresses his motivation in the secret report of his that has survived. Unsurprisingly perhaps, for a letter directed to the Ming court, he explains his actions as arising out of loyalty to his emperor and concern for the country – both well-established virtues of the learned man in Chinese history. But the force of Xu’s actions demand that we take what he writes seriously, because they imply that the fate of his homeland was something about which he felt passionately. In the report sent with Zhu Junwang, Xu writes of how before he met Zhu he ‘cried in anxiety day and night, looking to heaven and heaving great sighs’, not knowing what he could do. When Zhu agreed to help, Xu ‘leapt for joy’. He explains Zhu’s being willing to help as a result of his being ‘fervently loyal’ and ‘willing to sacrifice himself for his country’.22 Xu’s feelings are also hinted at in a farewell poem he wrote to Zhu Junwang: In the land of our plight we met by chance and for but a while, On a parting we are to take distant paths. Earnestly I instruct on the business of loyalty to our lord, Sincerely I reiterate strategies for destroying the invaders. I know your return will become a scene like Master Su’s, How can one remain passing the years like Li Ling? If the governor asks after my humble affairs, Say only that this subject lives in hardship and anxiety.23 This poem potently conveys the mixed joy and sadness of the exile meeting someone not only from his home province but who was like-minded, only to have to immediately say farewell. As well as loyalty, Xu points to the theme that filled much of his report: his concern with how to destroy the Japanese should

28

Xu Yihou, patriot in exile

they invade. His remaining anxiety is the same anxiety that had him restless before meeting Zhu: fear that the Ming would be ill-prepared to fight the Japanese. ‘Master Su’ in the poem is Su Shi 蘇軾 (1037–1101), who was remembered as a loyal official exiled but later pardoned and allowed to return. Li Ling 李陵 (d. 74 bce) was a Han dynasty general who surrendered to the dynasty’s nonChinese enemy, the Xiongnu 匈奴. The Han court executed his family, and Li stayed with the Xiongnu until his death. Han histories recorded that his failure in battle was the work of an envious rival, and so for many commentators he became a tragic hero: loyal but forced into exile among barbarians.24 With these analogies Xu presents himself and Zhu as similarly loyal exiles, suffering unwarranted suspicion for remaining in Japan. In the report, Xu and Zhu express their fear that, if they returned, then their wish to ‘repay the country’ (報國) would be overlooked and they would be punished. This fear was well-founded, as only months earlier a Chinese man from Ryūkyū warning of Hideyoshi’s invasion had been imprisoned on suspicion of cooperation with Japanese pirates.25 The theme of loyalty in the poem reflects the contents of his report, in which he also explains his actions as being out of loyalty to his lord (忠君) and ‘for the sake of the country and the people’.26 We glimpse in Xu’s writing not abstract loyalty, however, but a keen desire to ensure the Ming defend his homeland on the one hand, and destroy the Japanese on the other. That Xu had – to put it mildly – little affection for the Japanese, is evident in the report of his that remains to us. It is to the contents of that report that we now turn.

Xu’s intelligence report Though parts of the report that Xu Yihou sent with Zhu Junwang in 1592 are recorded in a variety of sources, the most complete version is contained in Quan Zhe bing zhi 全浙兵制 (Military System of the Entire Zhe Region) compiled by Hou Jigao 侯繼高 (1533–1603). This version includes the account of the report’s receipt, including Zhu’s oral testimony and the poem Xu wrote for Zhu. Hou Jigao held a military post in the Zhejiang area, which, as previously mentioned, had long suffered attacks from sea raiders. It is for this reason that Hou includes as an appendix to Quan Zhe bing zhi collected warning reports on Japanese activity, including that of Xu Yihou.27 Compared to most of his contemporaries based in China, who knew of Japan only through reading and hearsay, Xu Yihou had tremendous knowledge of this country over the sea. Not only had he lived in Japan for two decades and could evidently speak Japanese, but – perhaps owing to having the trust of the lord of Satsuma – he had access to Japanese political news. The effectiveness of Xu’s writing lay not only in his knowledge, but his ability to communicate that in terms his audience would understand. Significantly, his report assumes no knowledge whatsoever of Japan: his audience was unlikely to have any recent information on the country. Xu assumes only that Ming officials are aware of the nominally Japanese pirate raids that had plagued the Chinese coasts for decades

Warning of the tsunami to come 29 – and how could they not be: the pirates (many of whom were Chinese) had caused serious damage. Thus, the report attempts to cover everything Ming decision-makers might need to know. Each aspect covered in the report is given a section of its own, with titles such as ‘On the background of Japan’s invasion’, ‘On the background of Japan’s Kampaku’ (i.e. Hideyoshi). Information is interspersed throughout with advice, and there is a dedicated section headed ‘On strategies for defending against the raiders’.28 Xu gives great detail on strategic and tactical weaknesses of the Japanese, and painstaking instructions on how to secure victory. His hope, repeated more than once through the secret report, is that by following his advice ‘all of the Japanese dogs29 can be killed, [such that] not a piece of armour returns [to Japan].’30 He also discusses interesting cultural details such as how Japanese boys learn to use a sword from an early age, and how their education is in Classical Chinese – though he claims they do not understand what they learn.31 Overall, Xu is scathing in his appraisal of the Japanese. He sees them as valuing only the martial at the expense of all other cultural achievement, and even in the area of warfare, he likes to think they do not have the depth of strategic understanding that exists in China. In this vein, one of his typical judgements is that the Japanese have ‘no talents or abilities whatsoever, relying on fierce bravery alone.’32 The only Japanese subject to receive a positive portrayal under Xu’s brush is the ruling house of Satsuma (which he served), which he describes as having always been respectful of the Ming, and opposing the invasion.33 Xu on Hideyoshi and Japan Xu’s explanation of Hideyoshi’s decision to invade and his commentary on Hideyoshi encapsulate well the report as a whole. In it we see how a valuable the report’s detail would have been to intelligence-starved officials on the continent, how Xu’s information reflected Hideyoshi’s domestic propaganda, and how a derisive tone characterized Xu’s commentary on Hideyoshi and Japan. As we embark on a journey following individuals through the years of the war, Xu’s explanation will also serve to exemplify how hubris and mutual ignorance were the starting point of a truly region-wide conflict. The Kampaku [Hideyoshi] had devoured the various states, with only [the eastern region] Kantō yet to fall. On the 8th day of the first month of last year [1590], he gathered the feudal lords before his throne, led a force of 100,000 men to march east and pronounced, ‘Tightly besiege their fortifications, build small forts to encircle them, and keep guard. I shall cross the sea to invade Tang [i.e. China].’ He then ordered [the lord of] Hizen to build ships. After ten days the kingdom of Ryūkyū sent a monk to pay tribute. [Hideyoshi] bestowed on him 100 liang of gold and instructed him saying, ‘I will launch a distant campaign against the Great Tang [i.e. China], and shall take you, Ryūkyū, as my guide.’

30

Xu Yihou, patriot in exile He then summoned the old followers of [the pirate] Wang Wufeng, and questioned them. They replied, ‘When the Great Tang took Wufeng, 300 of us pillaged and looted all the way from Nanjing down to Fujian, and returned a year later unscathed. The Tang fears Japan as if it were a tiger. A flip of the hand and the Great Tang will be yours.’ To this Hideyoshi said, ‘With my cunning and my armies, it will be like a flood smashing sand, a sharp blade splitting bamboo. What fortress will not fall? What country will not perish? I shall conquer the Great Tang for certain. My only concern is that the tight naval defences will not allow us to set foot on Tang territory.’ In the fifth month, the donkeys [carrying the] tributes of the kingdom of Koryŏ [i.e. Korea] entered the capital. [Hideyoshi] instructed them with the words he had instructed Ryūkyū, and bestowed on them 400 liang of gold. Koryŏ paying tribute to Japan began as of last year. In the seventh month, Europeans from Macau in Guangdong presented [Hideyoshi] with maps of our Great Ming, one of the heavens and one of the earth. … On the 18th day of the eleventh month, a letter was circulated: ‘Each state is to prepare three years’ worth of grain. [We will] first conquer Koryŏ, then move all the people of Japan to Koryŏ to farm, creating a base from which to face the Tang. If we take even one county of the Great Tang we will have made the reputation of our Japan. The Tang empire will be in our pocket.’ [Xu Yihou:] The Japanese dogs are utterly ignorant, judging the heavens from the bottom of a well. It is positively risible.34

Even without reciting Xu’s account in full, his narration of Hideyoshi’s preparations already sets the scene for the war that followed: many of the key themes are evident in this short extract. The first theme is mutual ignorance. It was not only Chinese officials that lacked current knowledge of Japan. Hideyoshi’s knowledge of the country he intended to conquer was severely limited. Information given to him by the likes of the former coastal raiders would only have misled him, as they had no experience of the true force of a Ming army of the sort the Japanese would face. While he was surely blinded by hubris after successive victories, if he truly understood the resources the Ming state could bring to bear on the battlefield, he may well have thought better of his plans. Indeed, it was not long before reality forced him to abandon his plans. In that sense, Xu’s likening him to the frog at the bottom of the well in a famous classical allegory is not unreasonable. Having let official relations with Japan subside over the preceding decades of Japanese civil war, Chosŏn was also overly reliant on a small group of intermediaries to explain and connect them with Japan, with the result that their ‘friendly’ diplomatic mission to Japan of 1590 was misrepresented in Japan as a tribute mission. This brings us to the second theme, of hierarchy. Suzerain-protectorate relationships were the norm in inter-state relations prior to the nineteenth century

Warning of the tsunami to come 31 and played a central role throughout the war of 1592–1598. Here, at the outset, Xu places Korea in a dangerous position. In the model that has been referred to as the ‘Chinese World Order’, the Chinese emperor sat at the centre of the known world and received tribute from all other kings and chieftains. These willing vassals offered examples of the finest produce of their land; in return, the emperor gave generously, demonstrating his wealth and benevolence. This model admitted only one emperor (though East Asian history abounds with awkward examples of multiple rulers claiming the title simultaneously).35 Chosŏn was exemplary in fulfilling the role of faithful vassal to the Ming, but here was Xu reporting to Beijing that Chosŏn had secretly been paying tribute to Japan – even accepting payment in return. This, of course, was how Hideyoshi was led to see the Chosŏn embassy by the Japanese lords that acted as intermediaries with the Koreans, and also how he wished to present the embassy within Japan, to boost his prestige. It is in Hideyoshi’s belief that the Chosŏn king was his vassal that the seed of the second invasion in 1597 lay. The third theme is the truly all-encompassing nature of the war. Xu reports Hideyoshi’s approach to Ryūkyū and we see Europeans appear. The present of the maps comes just at the time Matteo Ricci and his colleagues were working on new Chinese maps of the world. Though Xu does not mention it, the heavy cannon that gave the Ming the upper hand in the war and the arquebuses which the Japanese relied on throughout, were all European inventions. The spoils of war would be sold on international markets, linking all the way back to Europe. Finally, Xu’s report of a note of reserve from Hideyoshi – juxtaposed against his superlative bombast – offers a clue as to the reason for Korea’s tragic fate. That Hideyoshi feared Chinese naval forces would stop his armies before they could even reach dry land explains why he ordered the invasion of China to go through Korea: it offered the shortest possible sea crossing. Xu’s letter was in itself a precursor to the explosion of communication, interaction, and mutual awareness that the war represented. Where before crossborder communication was limited to a few traders, suddenly the words of a hitherto voiceless exile carried across borders, and Xu’s explanation of Japan and the Japanese informed countless readers in China and Korea.36 Xu’s view of the world from Japan In Xu’s account above we can already see how his immersion in Japanese society and reliance on Japanese sources had changed the way he described the world. For example, he follows many contemporary Japanese writers in referring to Korea as Koryŏ (J. Korai), the name of the kingdom that preceded Chosŏn on the Korean peninsula, 918–1392 ce. At the same time, the influence of his Chinese learning is reflected not only in the language he writes in (Classical Chinese) but in the position of condescension he takes towards Japanese culture, as he identifies himself as belonging to something superior. If we examine how Xu, in his special position on the eve of war, saw China, Japan, and their peoples’ place in the world, we see both these Chinese and Japanese influences at work.

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Chinese people in Japan Satsuma was a busy centre of sea trade, where people from across East Asia interacted and came to settle.37 There was a long-established Chinese community there, which Xu reports on as part of providing intelligence about Japan. He seems to have been anticipating a Ming wish to mobilize local Chinese for spying or diplomacy. [The Japanese] call our Great Ming ‘the Great Tang’, and call the people of our country Tang people [J. Karabito]. Those who have long lived in Japanese territory are known as old Tang people. This is probably because the Tang dynasty [618–907] commanded authority among the barbarians [or, ‘non-Chinese peoples’].38 Xu seeks to explain to Ming officials why the Japanese are using a centuries-old name to refer to China, but a few lines earlier he had already betrayed the influence of Japanese habits on his own by talking about ‘Tang people’ himself.39 Later, too, he shows himself completely oblivious to his use of ‘Tang’ (J. Kara) when he says, ‘if the Japanese raiders set foot in our Great Tang …’ – despite the secret report being intended for an official Ming audience.40 Having spent two decades in Japan, the labels used there had evidently become his own. The Japanese and Xu Yihou using ‘Tang’ 唐 (J. Kara) and Koryŏ 高麗 (C. Gaoli, J. Kōrai) to talk about China and Korea points to something we will see in all the writings examined in this book. That is, that China, Korea, and Japan were all seen as countries with long histories, extending much further back than the governments that currently ruled those countries: the Ming, Chosŏn, or Hideyoshi. The people in Satsuma were described as each having a fixed identity associated with a country, even if it was their ancestors that came from that country. China among equals? Another area in which Xu Yihou unwittingly reveals how much living in Japan has shifted his perspective, is when he describes Japan’s political arrangements. Xu was determined to explain Japan in terms a Chinese audience could understand, so drew on Chinese historical precedent. In doing so, however, he breaks with all other Chinese and Korean writers of this time in apparently accepting the Japanese emperor as legitimate. As discussed briefly above, Ming imperial rhetoric claimed the sovereignty of the Wanli 萬曆 emperor (r. 1573–1620) to be universal: he was the Son of Heaven (天子), appointed to rule the earth. Thus, when Chinese and Korean texts of this time noted that the Japanese ruler adopted the title of ‘emperor’, they tended to quote the Japanese title Tennō 天皇 (Heavenly Emperor), recording it as a claim, not a fact, and a claim that in itself implied insurrection.41 For example, in Wanli san da zheng kao 萬曆三大征考 (Study of the Three Great

Warning of the tsunami to come 33 Campaigns of the Wanli Era), written in China just after the war, the Japanese rulers are said to ‘call [themselves] king and claim superior status, later using the title Tennō [Heavenly Emperor]’.42 Chosŏn writers similarly avoided directly recognizing the Japanese emperor. Hwang Shin, the ambassador whose diary we will come to later, wrote of ‘the one referred to as Tennō’.43 Against this background, Xu Yihou’s explanation of the Japanese emperor stands out as positively radical. Xu does not report the Japanese emperor claiming a title, but simply uses the standard Chinese term for emperor to state that ‘[Japan] has always had an emperor’.44 He later goes as far as to refer to the Japanese emperor as Son of Heaven, which was arguably treasonous.45 Xu would have been more sensitive to political propriety if he were still living in China, or even if he was in Chosŏn. Instead, his writing shows how removed a world he was occupying in Japan, despite the Satsuman port having bustled with traders from China and elsewhere. When Xu claimed that Japanese children learned Chinese classics but ‘did not understand’ them, he was of course being condescending, but he was also pointing to a truth on the eve of the war. Though educated people across the region shared much historical, political and religious knowledge, there was a far greater gap in understandings between Japan and Chosŏn than there was between Chosŏn and the Ming. Xu Yihou attempted to act as a sort of bridge, explaining one world to the other. We can see that, perhaps without realizing it, after two decades in Japan he already appreciated that the world was a more pluralized, multi-polar place than official Chinese doctrine admitted. Whether he liked it or not, Japanese viewpoints had rubbed off on him.46

Concluding remarks Through the Chosŏn court annals we see how within a few months the news contained in Xu’s initial report in 1591 had spread across the Ming empire. When Chosŏn officials arrived in northeastern China they were treated with suspicion, owing to Xu having reported Chosŏn to be in league with the Japanese.47 It was not long before the full report was brought into Chosŏn and circulated there. We know this because, of the few men in Chosŏn who left diaries of their war experience, at least two diarists felt it was so important they copied it out in full.48 Xu Yihou’s reputation as an authoritative source on Japan would have been sealed when his chief prediction, of an invasion in the spring of 1592, came to pass. Xu’s report and subsequent communications are a vivid example of how the experience of someone far from the – in this case Chinese – political and cultural centre filtered back into that centre. Xu Yihou would in other circumstances have had no way of projecting his voice across the region, but when information on Japan was required, his voice from what those in Beijing would see as the cultural periphery became invaluable. In several memorials during the war Ming officials pointed to Xu’s report as providing vital warning and accurate intelligence.49 Even after seven years of war, the importance of Xu’s timely report was not forgotten: in a later memorial to the emperor, an official named Zhao Shizhen 趙士禎 used Xu’s

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report as an example of how warnings from abroad should not be ignored.50 Xu Yihou became a symbol, therefore, of how information on foreign lands and peoples must come from the frontier or beyond it – from those who have direct contact with the people in question. Before the war and after it, too many of the ideas about ‘the other’ were recycled inaccuracies, written by those with far more cultural capital than they had experience of the foreign. Xu found himself in a peculiarly privileged position because he could translate his first-hand knowledge of the Japanese back into the language of the ‘centre’: of orthodox Chinese discussion of history, geography, and war. Xu was evidently influenced both by an orthodox Classical Chinese education and his experience in Japan. Xu may have felt the anguish he described and acted as he did because he had internalized the importance of loyalty to ruler and country. At the very least, knowledge of these values ensured he would have seen being recognized for patriotism as a great honour. His discussion of the Japanese as part of a category of ‘non-Chinese’, who were implicitly inferior, reflects contemporary Chinese thinking and Ming state practice.51 Equally, we have observed how his language and world-view had been subtly affected by his immersion in Japan. Xu straddled the gulf of mutual misunderstanding that existed in 1591 between China and Korea on the one hand and Japan on the other, a gulf which in part precipitated the war, and certainly hindered rational resolution of the conflict. The war would be a painful process of learning for those on all sides.

Notes 1 Fragments from Xu’s report can be found in a number of historical works produced after the war in China and Korea, some of which are known to have quickly found their way to Japan. Furthermore, textual analysis of these fragments shows that the historians were copying not from each other but from versions of the report that are no longer extant. The legacy of the report is discussed in Chapter 7. Examples of works containing Xu’s report, or parts of it, include: Zhuge Yuansheng 諸葛元聲, Liang chao ping rang lu 兩朝平攘錄 (Quelling Unrest in Two Reigns), ed. Zhongguo yeshi jicheng bianweihui 中國野史集成編委會, vol. 27, Zhongguo yeshi jicheng 中國野史集成 (Chengdu: Bashu shushe 巴蜀書社, 1993); ‘Sŏnjo sujŏng sillok’ 宣祖 修正實錄 (Revised Annals of the Sŏnjo Reign), National Institute of Korean History; Sin Kyŏng 申炅, Chaejo pŏnbang chi 再造藩邦志 (Salvation of a Vassal State), vol. 7, Taedong yasŭng 大東野乘 (Kyŏngsŏng [Seoul]: Chosŏn kosŏ kanhaenghoe 朝鮮古書刊行會, 1910). 2 For a discussion of the Ming reception of pre-war intelligence reports, see Chen Zhigang 陈志刚, ‘Mingchao zai Chaoxian zhi yi qianhou de junshi qingbao huodong lunxi’ 明朝在朝鲜之役前后的军事情报活动论析 (Analysis of the Ming Dynasty’s Military Intelligence Activities before and after the Chosŏn Campaign), Xuexi yu tansuo 学习与探索, no. 4 (2011): 240–242. 3 Guan Ning 管宁, ‘Ming dai Xu Yihou, Guo Guoan deng zhongjun baoguo huodong shiji kao’ 明代许仪后, 郭国安等忠君报国活动事迹考 (Investigation of the Loyal and Patriotic Activities and Exploits of Xu Yihou and Guo Guoan of the Ming Era), Zhongguo lishi wenwu 中国历史文物, no. 2 (1994): 77. 4 Hou Jigao 侯繼高, ‘Quan Zhe bing zhi kao’ 全浙兵制考 (Military System of the Entire Zhe Region), ed. Siku quan shu cunmu congshu bianzuan weiyuanhui 四庫全

Warning of the tsunami to come 35 書存目叢書編纂委員會, vol. 子31, Siku quan shu cunmu congshu 四庫全書存目叢

書 (Jinan: Qi Lu shu she 齐鲁书社, 1995), 178–179. 5 Ibid. 6 Japanese ambassadors to the Ming court who were of Chinese origin all described themselves as having been taken abroad by force, and it has been suggested in some cases this was due to the official Ming ban on emigration. Hok-Lam Chan, ‘The “Chinese Barbarian Officials” in the Foreign Tributary Missions to China during the Ming Dynasty’, Journal of the American Oriental Society 88, no. 3 (1968): 414–415. 7 Zhu probably gave ‘excess’ stock as an excuse for his travelling abroad to trade – albeit a rather weak excuse. 8 This information was obtained by the Fujian official who received Zhu and his report. Guan Ning, ‘Xu Yihou shiji kao’, 77. 9 Hou Jigao, ‘Quan Zhe bing zhi’, 178–179. 10 Ibid. at 184–185. 11 With a view to the wider question of perceptions of China, Korea, and Japan with which this book is interested, the appeal from Tokugawa to Hideyoshi’s desire to ‘brand manage’ Japan on the world stage is in itself highly telling. 12 Sappan kyūgi zatsuroku 薩藩旧記雑録 (Miscellaneous old records of the Satsuma domain), kan 卷 26, 798, quoted in Guan Ning, ‘Xu Yihou shiji kao’, 79. 13 References are made to him in communications throughout the war. For example, he is discussed in a conversation recorded between a Chinese official and the Chosŏn official assigned to him. ‘Sŏnjo sillok’ 宣祖實錄 (Annals of the Sŏnjo Reign) n.d., 1591.11.1, National Institute of Korean History. 14 Chen Zhigang, ‘Mingchao qingbao huodong’, 243. 15 Hou Jigao, ‘Quan Zhe bing zhi’, 181. 16 Chen Zhigang, ‘Mingchao qingbao huodong’, 243–244. 17 No In 魯認, Kŭmgye ilgi 錦溪日記 (Kŭmgye diary), quoted in Guan Ning, ‘Xu Yihou shiji kao’, 82. 18 Mao Yuanyi 茅元儀 ed., Wu bei zhi 武備志 (A history of armaments), quoted in Chen Zhigang, ‘Mingchao qingbao huodong’, 246. 19 Song Yingchang 宋應昌, Jinglüe fuguo yaobian 經略復國要編, juan 卷 11, ‘Bao Shi sima shu’ 報石司馬書, quoted in Guan Ning, ‘Xu Yihou shiji kao’, 81. The receipt of the report is also mentioned in Mao Yuanyi, Wu bei zhi. See Chen Zhigang, ‘Mingchao qingbao huodong’, 246. 20「俺是許儀俊[後] 系大明江西道吉安府萬安縣人 隆慶四年被搶來此 衆賊候天使 信來 當於八月中盡欲回還」 Ming Shenzong shilu 明神宗實錄 (Veritable records of the Ming Shenzong reign), 1594.10.10, quoted in Guan Ning, ‘Xu Yihou shiji kao’, 80. 21「旣已未死 奈何奈何」 These are reportedly the words of Zhu Yuanli 朱元禮, from Zhejiang, captured in 1584, who worked as an interpreter for the Japanese. See ‘Sŏnjo sillok’, 1598.6.2(1). 22「幸而朱均旺忠心激切 義氣發見 自願以身報國」 Hou Jigao, ‘Quan Zhe bing zhi’, 179. 23「難域萍逢幾度周 一朝分首作遐遊 殷勤囑咐忠君事 盡意叮嚀滅寇籌 知汝歸成蘇 子景 豈宜還作李陵秋 霜臺若問塵中事 惟道斯民苦尚憂」 Ibid. at 185. 24 K.P.K. Whitaker, ‘Some Notes on the Authorship of the Lii Ling/Su Wuu Secret Reports’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London 15, no. 1 (1953): 113–115. 25 Chen Zhigang, ‘Mingchao qingbao huodong’, 240–242. 26「為國為民」 Hou Jigao, ‘Quan Zhe bing zhi’, 179. 27 The edition referred to here is a facsimile of a handwritten copy held in Tianjin Library. Regarding the receipt of the report, see also Kenneth Swope, A Dragon’s Head and a Serpent’s Tail: Ming China and the First Great East Asian War, 1592–1598 (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2009), 62.

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28「一陳日本入寇之由」, 「一陳日本關白之由」, 「一陳禦寇之策」. 29 ‘Japanese dogs’ is an attempt to render Wonu (K. Waeno) 倭奴 in English. Wonu literally means ‘Wo slaves’ (where Wo is an ethnonym for the Japanese), but the term was common because Wonu is the full name of the first kingdom of the Japanese islands recorded in Chinese historical records, e.g. in the Han shu 漢書 (Book of Han) c.111 ce. For this reason, Wonu can also be read as a simple proper noun, rather than as a derogatory term. An analysis of the usage of ‘Wonu’ in Xu Yihou’s missive reveals that he only shifts from ‘Wo’ to ‘Wonu’ in contexts where he is excitedly describing violent destruction of the Japanese – such as the instance quoted here. This trend implies that Xu used ‘Wonu’ to express a hateful attitude towards the Japanese, because of the extra derogatory implications of nu (‘slave’). The decision to render Wonu with a derogatory phrase is taken in light of this evidence that it was derogatory for Xu. 30「可盡殺倭奴 片甲無歸」 Hou Jigao, ‘Quan Zhe bing zhi’, 181, 185. 31 Ibid. at 179. 32「無些才能 只恃一猛勇」 Ibid. at 185. 33 Ibid. at 181. 34 Whether Xu understood Hideyoshi as speaking about ‘my armies’ or ‘our armies’ is

debatable: the translation given here mixes singular and plural first-person pronouns but in the original text there is no such distinction.「關白幷呑列國 惟關東未下 去 年正月初八日 集眾諸侯於殿前 率兵十萬征東曰 重圍其城 四面匝築小城以守之 吾則欲渡海侵唐 遂命肥前守造船 越十日琉球國遣僧入貢 賜金百兩 囑之曰 吾欲 遠征大唐 當以汝琉球爲引導 旣而召曩時汪五峯之黨問之 答曰 大唐執五峰時 吾 輩三百餘人 自南京地方刼掠橫下福建 過一年全甲而歸 唐畏日本如虎 欲大唐如 反掌耳 關白曰 以吾之智 行吾之兵 如大水崩沙 利刀破竹 何國不亡 吾帝大唐矣 惟恐水兵嚴密 不能勾履唐地 五月 高麗國貢驢入京 亦以囑琉球之言囑之 賜金四 百兩 高麗之貢倭 自去年始也 七月 廣東蠔境澳佛狼機進我大明國天圖一幅地圖 一幅 … 十一月十八日文書遍行 列國各辦三年之粮 先征高麗 盡移日本之民於麗 地 耕種以爲敵唐之基 若得大唐一縣 是吾日本之名得矣 唐之天下在吾袖內也 倭 奴無知 坐井算天 良可笑也」Ibid. at 183–4. 35 Ming claims to universal sovereignty are demonstrated, for example, in the edicts issued by the emperor at the beginning and end of the war. See Huang Zhilian 黃枝连, Dongya de li yi shijie: Zhongguo fengjian wangchao yu Chaoxian bandao guanxi xingtai lun 东亚的礼义世界: 中国封建王朝与朝鲜半岛系形态论 (The East Asian World of Rites and Righteousness: On the State of Relations of China’s Feudal Dynasties and the Korean Peninsula) (Beijing: Zhongguo renmin daxue chubanshe, 1994), 442–3, 555–558. 36 For discussion of the legacy of Xu Yihou’s report, see Chapter 7. 37 Zhou Zhiming 周志明, ‘Mingmo renchen zhanzheng yu Zhongguo haishang’ 战争与 中国海商 (The Imjin War and Chinese Sea Merchants in the Late Ming), Journal of Fujian Normal University (Philosophy and Social Sciences Edition) no. 4 (2009): 124–128. 38「呼我大明曰大唐 呼我國之人曰唐人 久居倭地者曰舊唐人 蓋大唐之威令素行於 夷狄也」 Hou Jigao, ‘Quan Zhe bing zhi’, 180. 39 Xu wrote: ‘The Tang people who have lived in Japan for a long time all belong to the outlaw raiders, and so there is virtually no-one willing to speak out. Otherwise they are all market traders or peasants and do not understand matters of state, and so again not one of them is willing to speak the truth.’ 「唐人久住日本者 皆賊寇之黨 恕無 一人肯言真者 且皆市肆村居 不達國務 亦無一人肯言真者」 Ibid. at 179. 40「萬一倭寇履我大唐」 Guan Ning, ‘Xu Yihou shiji kao’, 77. Xu speaks of ‘our Great Ming’ more than a dozen times in his report, but this slip of substituting ‘Tang’ occurs only once. 41 The fact that the rhetoric of Ming world order did not allow for another emperor is reflected in Korean sources as well as Chinese. The Chosŏn court, priding itself on

Warning of the tsunami to come 37 Chosŏn’s position as favourite vassal of the Ming, was very sensitive to the language of the tribute system. In 1594, a Chosŏn official persuading the king that the Japanese were determined to invade China quoted as evidence a Japanese letter to China which was headed ‘the Son of Heaven where the sun rises writes to the Son of Heaven where the sun sets’, commenting, ‘oneself acting as an emperor of part of the world: this is intention to rebel’. 「倭賊通書於天朝曰 日出處天子寄書日沒處天子云 自為一方 天子 此乃犯順之意也」 ‘Sŏnjo sillok’, 1595.2.6. 42「稱王曰尊 後以天皇為號」 Mao Ruizheng 茅瑞徵, ‘Wanli san da zheng kao’ 萬曆 三大征考 (Study of the Three Great Campaigns of the Wanli Era) n.d., 倭上 1a, SB/916.85/4426, Peking University Library. 43 「所謂天皇者」 Hwang Shin 黃愼, ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’ 日本往還日記 (To Japan and Back Again: A Diary) n.d., 30a, Kyōto University Kawai Archive 京都大学河合 文庫. 44「原有皇帝」 Hou Jigao, ‘Quan Zhe bing zhi’, 179. 45 Ibid. at 182. 46 Parity between Japan and China, symbolized by parity between their emperors, had long had proponents in Japan. When Ashikaga Yoshimitsu 足利義満 (1368–1394) had accepted Ming investiture as ‘King of Japan’ (日本國王), he had been accused of ‘humiliating the country’ (辱國). Immediately after the war, the monk Saishō Jōtai 西 笑承兌 (1548–1607), who authored Japan’s diplomatic letters to China, consciously appropriated the language of the Chinese World Order to claim parity between the emperors and empires of China and Japan. (Mizuno Norihito 水野智仁, ‘China in Tokugawa Foreign Relations: The Tokugawa Bakufu’s Perception of and Attitudes toward Ming-Qing China’, Sino-Japanese Studies 15 (2003): esp. 117–25.) In fact, it has been argued that the position of emperor of Japan was constructed in conscious opposition to Chinese claims to universal imperial authority. Maeda Masayuki 前田 雅之, Konjaku monogatari shū no sekai kōsō 今昔物語集の世界構想 (Imagining the World in ‘Anthology of Tales from the Past’) (Tokyo: Kasama shoin 笠間書院, 1999), 213; Yoshida Takashi 吉田孝, Nihon no tanjō 日本の誕生 (Birth of Japan) (Tokyo: Iwanami shoten 岩波書店, 1997), 97. 47 ‘Sŏnjo sillok’, 1592.6.18. As we saw earlier, Xu Yihou believed Chosŏn had begun paying tribute to Japan, as this is how the intermediaries in Tsushima had portrayed the Chosŏn diplomatic mission of 1590 to Hideyoshi and the wider domestic audience. 48 Oh Hŭimun, whose diary is examined in another chapter, carefully copied out Xu Yihou’s report. (Oh Hŭimun 吳希文, ‘Swaemi rok’ 鎻尾錄 (Record of a Refugee) n.d., 甲午(1594) 附錄, Jangseogak Royal Archives.) A somewhat rougher copy was also made by Chosŏn officer Yi T’agyŏng. Yi T’agyŏng 李擢英, ‘Chŏng man nok’ 征 蠻錄 (Record of the Campaign against the Barbarians), Andong (n.d.), reg. treasure no. 880, Hanguk kukhak chinhŭngwŏn 韓國國學振興院, Andong. 49 Guan Ning, ‘Xu Yihou shiji kao’, 78. 50 Zhao Shizhen 趙士禎, ‘Bei bian tuntian chechong yi’ 備邊屯田車銃議 (Deliberation on Border Defense, Military Farms, and Mounted Cannon), in Yi hai zhu chen 藝海珠 塵, ed. Wu Xinglan 吳省蘭, vol. 35:2 (Taibei: Yinwen yinshuguan 藝文印書館, 1965), 1b. 51 For a discussion of contemporary categorization between Chinese and non-Chinese within the Ming empire, see Leo Kwok-yueh Shin, The Making of the Chinese State: Ethnicity and Expansion on the Ming Borderlands (Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 160–165.

38

Xu Yihou, patriot in exile

References Chan, Hok-Lam. ‘The “Chinese Barbarian Officials” in the Foreign Tributary Missions to China during the Ming Dynasty’. Journal of the American Oriental Society 88, no. 3 (1968): 411–418. Chen Zhigang 陈志刚. ‘Mingchao zai Chaoxian zhi yi qianhou de junshi qingbao huodong lunxi’ 明朝在朝鲜之役前后的军事情报活动论析 (Analysis of the Ming Dynasty’s Military Intelligence Activities before and after the Chosŏn Campaign). Xuexi yu tansuo 学习与探索, no. 4 (2011): 240–248. Guan Ning 管宁. ‘Ming dai Xu Yihou, Guo Guoan deng zhongjun baoguo huodong shiji kao’ 明代许仪后、郭国安等忠君报国活动事迹考 (Investigation of the Loyal and Patriotic Activities and Exploits of Xu Yihou and Guo Guoan of the Ming Era). Zhong­ guo lishi wenwu 中国历史文物, no. 2 (1994): 75–83. Hou Jigao 侯繼高. ‘Quan Zhe bing zhi kao’ 全浙兵制考 (Military System of the Entire Zhe Region). edited by Siku quan shu cunmu congshu bianzuan weiyuanhui 四庫全書 存目叢書編纂委員會, Vol. 子31. Siku quan shu cunmu congshu 四庫全書存目叢書. Jinan: Qi Lu shu she 齐鲁书社. 1995. Huang Zhilian 黃枝连. Dongya de li yi shijie: Zhongguo fengjian wangchao yu Chaoxian bandao guanxi xingtai lun 东亚的礼义世界: 中国封建王朝与朝鲜半岛系形态论 (The East Asian World of Rites and Righteousness: On the State of Relations of China’s Feudal Dynasties and the Korean Peninsula). Beijing: Zhongguo renmin daxue chubanshe. 1994. Hwang Shin 黃愼. ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’ 日本往還日記 (To Japan and Back Again: A Diary), n.d. Kyōto University Kawai Archive 京都大学河合文庫. Maeda Masayuki 前田雅之. Konjaku monogatari shū no sekai kōsō 今昔物語集の世界 構想 (Imagining the World in ‘Anthology of Tales from the Past’). Tokyo: Kasama shoin 笠間書院. 1999. Mao Ruizheng 茅瑞徵. ‘Wanli san da zheng kao’ 萬曆三大征考 (Study of the Three Great Campaigns of the Wanli Era), n.d. SB/916.85/4426. Peking University Library. Mizuno Norihito 水野智仁. ‘China in Tokugawa Foreign Relations: The Tokugawa Bakufu’s Perception of and Attitudes toward Ming-Qing China’. Sino-Japanese Studies 15 (2003): 108–144. Oh Hŭimun 吳希文. ‘Swaemi rok’ 鎻尾錄 (Record of a Refugee), n.d. Jangseogak Royal Archives. http://yoksa.aks.ac.kr. Shin, Leo Kwok-yueh. The Making of the Chinese State: Ethnicity and Expansion on the Ming Borderlands. Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press. 2006. Sin Kyŏng 申炅. Chaejo pŏnbang chi 再造藩邦志 (Salvation of a Vassal State). Vol. 7. Taedong yasŭng 大東野乘. Kyŏngsŏng [Seoul]: Chosŏn kosŏ kanhaenghoe 朝鮮古書 刊行會. 1910. Swope, Kenneth. A Dragon’s Head and a Serpent’s Tail: Ming China and the First Great East Asian War, 1592–1598. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. 2009. ‘Sŏnjo sillok’ 宣祖實錄 (Annals of the Sŏnjo Reign), n.d. National Institute of Korean History. http://sillok.history.go.kr. ‘Sŏnjo sujŏng sillok’ 宣祖修正實錄 (Revised Annals of the Sŏnjo Reign), n.d. National Institute of Korean History. http://sillok.history.go.kr. Whitaker, K. P. K. ‘Some Notes on the Authorship of the Lii Ling/Su Wuu Secret Reports’. Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London 15, no. 1 (1953): 113–137. Yi T’ag’yŏng 李擢英. ‘Chŏng man nok’ 征蠻錄 (Record of the Campaign against the Barbarians). Andong. n.d. Reg. treasure no. 880. Hanguk kukhak chinhŭngwŏn 韓國國 學振興院. Andong.

Warning of the tsunami to come 39 Yoshida Takashi 吉田孝. Nihon no tanjō 日本の誕生 (Birth of Japan). Tokyo: Iwanami shoten 岩波書店. 1997. Zhao Shizhen 趙士禎. ‘Bei bian tuntian chechong yi’ 備邊屯田車銃議 (Deliberation on Border Defense, Military Farms, and Mounted Cannon). In Yi hai zhu chen 藝海珠塵, edited by Wu Xinglan 吳省蘭, Vol. 35:2. Taibei: Yinwen yinshuguan 藝文印書館. 1965. Zhou Zhiming 周志明, ‘Mingmo renchen zhanzheng yu Zhongguo haishang’ 明末壬辰战 争与中国海商 (The Imjin War and Chinese Sea Merchants in the Late Ming), Journal of Fujian Normal University (Philosophy and Social Sciences Edition) no. 4 (2009): 124–128. Zhuge Yuansheng 諸葛元聲. Liang chao ping rang lu 兩朝平攘錄 (Quelling Unrest in Two Reigns). Edited by Zhongguo yeshi jicheng bianweihui 中國野史集成編委會. Vol. 27. Zhongguo yeshi jicheng 中國野史集成. Chengdu: Bashu shushe 巴蜀書社. 1993.

2

Glory in defeat

Yoshino Jingozaemon, warrior of Japan

When it came, the first invasion of 1592 broke on Chosŏn like a great wave. When that moment is recounted, it is most often from the defenders’ perspective: the first few ships dismissed as a trade mission, before the Japanese armada grew to blot out the horizon; the panic that followed. But in the very vanguard of the invading force was one Yoshino Jingozaemon 吉野甚五左衛門, and his memoir has survived. Yoshino recounts horrific slaughter from the perspective of the perpetrator, as well as the hardship into which the Japanese army rapidly fell. The story he tells is at once a journey over the sea to a faraway land and a journey of realization. Yoshino seems to want to pen a tale of brave adventure, but struggles to reconcile his conviction in the superiority of Japanese valour with the Chinese military might with which he came face-to-face. The result is a nuanced account, glorifying the invasion even while questioning its wisdom. Yoshino’s version of events offers a glimpse of how one of the invaders justified his actions, rationalized defeat, and interpreted the entire war as part of a greater story: that of Japan.

Yoshino’s diary Yoshino nikki 吉野日記 (Yoshino’s Diary) is one of a number of Japanese warriors’ memoirs (sōgunki 從軍記) that have survived. It deserves our special attention for several reasons. First of these is its close proximity to the events it records. The author describes the invasion as a witness and participant, and writes in 1593, at what he thought was the conclusion of the war.1 His writing thus preserves a moment in history when the author had no idea that fighting would continue for another five years.2 Written as a recollection of the events of past months rather than a daily diary, the author is able to design a framework through which to explain the whole war to his readers back in Japan, and this framework is most interesting: for it is his vision of Japan, the Japanese, and their relationship with the world. The author’s own identity is also important. While we know little of him personally, he was evidently of the warrior (bushi 武士) class, and of much lower status than the feudal lord (daimyō 大名) commanders, of whom he speaks with reverence.3 The supreme commander Hideyoshi’s world-view has long been a

Glory in defeat 41 subject of academic interest, while Konishi Yukinaga 小西行長 (1558–1600), Katō Kiyomasa 加藤 清正 (1562–1611), and other commanders receive attention as participants in the much-studied negotiation process.4 Yoshino nikki represents the view of one of the far wider group of people who actively participated in the first invasion but were excluded from decision-making and – often – from history. The developed thinking about his country and the world that the author displays removes any doubts that the ‘voiceless masses’ were also devoid of a wider world-view. Furthermore, as warriors enjoyed increased status and political influence under centuries of a military-dominated government, warriors’ tales and the values they espoused became highly influential in the shaping of mainstream values of society as a whole.5 While Yoshino nikki is a unique composition, some of the key themes Yoshino draws on to explain the war and Japan’s place in the world are repeated in other warriors’ memoirs, so in this sense Yoshino’s memoir serves as an example of the wider genre. As we look at Yoshino nikki we will explore these themes in turn: Japan being one of ‘the Three Lands’, the myth of Empress Jingū’s previous invasion of Korea, and the idea of Japan as Land of the Gods. Finally, Yoshino nikki is significant as an account of the war that continued to be read and valued by those interested in the war in Japan. There is evidence of repeated copying, lending, and continued appreciation of the authenticity of the text as a first-hand account over the next few centuries. To date, a modern translation of Yoshino nikki has only been made into Korean.6 Japanese scholars have discussed the text, but no in-depth study seems to have been made.7 While not a full translation, this study of the memoir appears to be the first of its kind in English. Survival of the text It is no mean feat for the short, handwritten memoir of one man to survive 400 years, but there are at least two distinct extant versions of Yoshino nikki.8 These are included in the nineteenth-century documentary collections Zoku gunsho ruijū 続群書類従 (Classified Collection of Books Continued) and Chūgai keii den sōkō 中外經緯傳草稿 (Draft Account of Matters Domestic and Foreign) respectively.9 The two versions do not appear to be direct relations, but in terms of the text body there are only minor differences.10 As regards information about the text, both versions record the author as being a man called Yoshino Jingozaemon, but offer little further information about his identity. All that remains is Yoshino’s signature, copied in the version included in Chūgai keii den sōkō, which gives his identity as a vassal of Matsuura Shigenobu 松浦鎮信 (1549–1614).11 From this we can establish that he travelled to the peninsula with the First Army, led by Konishi Yukinaga, of which Matsuura’s army formed a part.12 This means Yoshino arrived in Korea with the first part of the Japanese invasion force in 1592, and his account continues until the following year when he returns to Japan as a result of the Sino-Japanese peace negotiations.

42

Yoshino Jingozaemon, warrior of Japan

What happened to the text in the first years after Yoshino’s return is not clear, but we know that by the eighteenth century there were many copies. The editor of Zoku gunsho ruijū apparently consulted at least two versions, as the text is annotated throughout marking alternative versions of words or phrases. Dating earlier than this, the Zoku gunsho ruijū version further contains a note (識語) by a copyist named Kodama 兒玉 dated 1787, which explains part of that version’s history. He begins by exclaiming that there is no way to know how many times the text had changed hands. His knowledge of its history extends back to it being held in the house of the Osaka merchant Kimura Kenkadō 木村蒹葭堂 (1736–1802). Kimura showed it to Anbe Nobuchika 安部信允 (1728–1799), lord of Okabe 岡部 (present-day Saitama), when he was on official duty in Osaka. Nobuchika reportedly took such a liking to it that he had one of his men copy it, mimicking the original even down to the shade of the ink. It was from Nobuchika, before he returned to the capital, that Kodama was able to borrow the text and make his own copy.13 From Kodama’s account we can see that although the text was never put to print, it continued to attract interest. That it was not printed may have been due to government prohibition of texts relating to Hideyoshi’s Korean invasion, rather than a lack of a market for the text.14 The memoir’s continued appeal for later readers was the authenticity of the text as a first-hand account. Kodama describes Nobuchika prizing the text as an unpolished account written in the midst of battle.15 Yoshino nikki may be unpolished in terms of literary style, but it seems unlikely it was written as a diary during the actual campaign. The author himself describes the account as being written on board a ship at Pusan 釜山, the Korean harbour from which he was to return home (see Map 2.1). Thus the text appears to be a memoir written immediately after the event.

Yoshino’s story Yoshino’s memoir is not a long text, at just over five thousand characters. It is written in Classical Japanese. For the most part it is a narrative of the war told through Yoshino’s own experiences, and focusing on major battles in which he took part. The exception is the brief prologue-like section which precedes the main body of the memoir. This frames the author’s experiences by explaining Japan’s position in the world and relationship with Korea. A final note at the end of the text reads, ‘As this was written on a ship it will be very difficult to read; begging your pardon./In the port of Pusan./4th day, seventh month, [1593]’.16 After explaining Japan’s place in the world and its history, Yoshino describes how the lords of Japan, receiving an imperial decree, set out to cross the sea and pacify a foreign country.17 From Ikinoshima 壹岐島 (which belonged to Yoshino’s lord Matsuura) the fleet set sail on the 12th day of the third month of 1592 to Tsushima 對馬, arriving in Pusan on the 12th day of the fourth month.18 Yoshino then moves directly into a description of the siege of Pusan, describing fearsome Chosŏn defences as a foil for the rapid and decisive nature of the

Glory in defeat 43

Map 2.1 Map showing Japanese and Ming Chinese military movements within the Korean peninsula in 1593 and the location of Pusan, in the harbour of which Yoshino wrote his diary, known as Yoshino nikki.

Japanese victory. The First Army to which Yoshino belonged enjoyed victory after victory, as it captured Tongnae 東萊, Miryang 密陽, the capital Hansŏng 漢城 (Seoul), Kaesŏng 開城, and finally the important northern city of Pyongyang 平壤. It was while holding their position at Pyongyang that Yoshino and his comrades had their first encounter with a Ming force. According to Yoshino, when

44

Yoshino Jingozaemon, warrior of Japan

the Chinese force led by Zu Chengxun 祖承訓 finally arrived, they caught the defenders totally unawares. Yoshino writes that Zu launched his assault on the city in the early hours of 16th day of the sixth month. That the Japanese occupying the city were still in a dreamlike state when an allied force attacked serves to better illustrate the valour of the Japanese in their successful defence. We know that, rattled by this first defeat, Chinese commanders did not attack again until they were much better prepared. The next attack came as a shock for Yoshino: the Japanese defence of Pyongyang fell to an overwhelming force. Even so, Yoshino assures his readers, the defenders would have held their ground if it had not been for starvation: the besieged Japanese simply ran out of food. As victorious advance turned into defeat and flight, a lack of supplies and the harsh cold of winter on the peninsula dominate Yoshino’s memory of the remainder of the campaign. Yoshino describes the collected Japanese forces facing the enemy at Hansŏng in an atmosphere of despair. All the commanders gathered for a military council every day, but from Yoshino’s perspective, with supplies exhausted there was no way to carry on. The Ming negotiator Shen Weijing’s 沈惟 敬 (d. 1597) timely arrival from Kaesŏng to continue negotiations was welcomed by the head of the First Army, Konishi Yukinaga. Yoshino then describes how he and the majority of the army returned from Hanyang in response to promising negotiations with Shen Weijing – totally omitting the fact that the Japanese retreated after suffering a defeat at the hands of the Koreans at Haengju.19 At this point, it becomes clear the warrior Yoshino is justifying his army’s inglorious return from war. He describes Shen Weijing first promising and then actually delivering hostages, in spite of Japanese suspicions. The Japanese army is said to have attributed the apparent success of the negotiations to the ‘martial fortune’ (buun 武運) – i.e. destiny to win – of the First Army, and its chief Yukinaga. The purported completion of the negotiations in turn led to the happy return of Yoshino and his comrades to Japan. Yoshino attempts to portray what was a partial defeat and retreat of the Japanese army as a success – despite the Japanese not having actually gained anything meaningful through the negotiations. Given the earlier Japanese victories against the odds, Yoshino’s memoir is able to recount the expedition in a triumphant tone. Though there are both high and low points in the story, suffering freezing weather and near starvation only prove the warrior’s mettle. They could not claim overall victory against Chosŏn or the Ming, but against the brutal trial of the campaign itself they were victorious as warriors. Yoshino’s somewhat abstract closing comment both reaffirms the necessary character of a warrior and justifies the final withdrawal: ‘Those who are born as warriors must be strong of bone and sharp of mind; to act rashly is foolish.’20 The memoir ends as a tale of a warrior’s moral fibre.

Japan against the world It is perhaps precisely to compensate for the somewhat lacklustre end to the tale that Yoshino begins his memoir with a grandiose opening. His opening section is the most important for understanding how he wished to frame the war, and is

Glory in defeat 45 Yoshino’s fascinating answer to what appears to be a conundrum the invasion had confronted him with. For Yoshino, this campaign was about Japan against the world, and the Japanese warrior against his foreign counterparts. He had apparently believed, and was deeply keen to continue to believe, that Japan and the Japanese warrior were superior, yet the reality of defeat in Chosŏn pointed inescapably to an inferiority. Yoshino’s opening embodies this contradiction, managing to be both self-aggrandizing and damning in its appraisal of Japan’s power. It is worth quoting this section in full: If one looks at the world maps passed down from the days of old, Kara [i.e. China21] has over four hundred provinces, India has sixteen large countries and ten thousand small countries; continuing over to Nanban22 and Korea it can be seen that there is a great river in these border countries. As for Japan, it is but an island far in the eastern seas. If it is compared to a large country it is but one hair among nine oxen. Yet, Japan is the Land of the Gods (shinkoku), and as such has the force of the Way of the Gods (shintō) and dauntless courage; the valour of its people’s hearts surpasses that of all the Three Lands. Therefore, ever since Empress Jingū, wife of the fourteenth-generation emperor Chūai, in the female body of an empress conquered Korea (San Kan), Japan has not been conquered by another country, but rather tribute has been offered up to our court every year by Korea and Ryūkyū.23 This was the ritual precedent of previous eras.24 But now, when we are on the end of the hundred kings, and into the End Time (masse matsudai), to fight over territory (or ‘countries’, kuni) and assemble arms, I think is like to the mantis which tried to block the chariot.25 Yoshino’s points can be briefly summarized as follows: (1) Japan is both small and distant (implying insignificance); (2) but being the Land of the Gods, it has a force and military strength that surpasses other countries; (3) in the past this has meant it has not been conquered but rather has conquered its neighbours and received tribute from them; (4) but in the current era, as [it is implied] Japan is weaker, it is foolish to attempt a war of conquest. While the outline of the argument may be more or less clear, this short paragraph is dense in culturally-loaded terms: Three Lands, Land of the Gods, End Time. If we are to understand the significance of what Yoshino is saying, and why he might think in this way, we must first look at the history that these terms represent. Three lands An important part of Yoshino’s world-view is the idea of the ‘Three Lands’ (三國). When he is describing his impression of the world, he begins by mentioning two of these: Kara 唐 and Tenjiku 天竺. Tenjiku refers to India, being a Japanese rendition of the Chinese name of that country (an early transliteration). Kara uses the character for the Tang Dynasty (618–907), and primarily refers to China.26 The third of the ‘Three Lands’ was Japan.27 This view is first seen in

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Buddhist histories. Nihon ryōi ki28 is the earliest known collection of Buddhist stories, written in the eighth to ninth centuries. It explicitly sets out to counter Sino-centric histories of Buddhist saints, showing that Japan, too, was a land of the Buddha (佛國土). In doing so it claimed equal status for Japan with India and China, the countries where Buddhism respectively originated and was transmitted. By also praising the morality and wisdom of the Japanese emperors before Buddhism reached Japan, it further seeks to establish Japan’s equal status with China as an enlightened country even before Buddhist transmission occurred.29 The tenth-century Sanbō e 三寶繪30 collection continues a strong awareness of Japan’s position in the world, going further by claiming that Japan was where Buddhism reached its apex. This is conceived in an ‘Indian origin – Chinese transmission – Japanese culmination’ sequence, which was an inversion of the lament of many important Buddhist figures that Japan was at the end of the chain, last to receive Buddhist teachings both in geographic and temporal sequence.31 The widely-influential eleventh-century collection of stories Konjaku monogatari shū 今昔物語集, does not so brazenly claim Japanese superiority, but reinforces the Three Lands view, being in fact compiled in three parts, each containing stories from one of the countries.32 As a result of this Buddhist influence, the world came to be seen in terms of the Three Lands, and the term Three Lands came to represent the whole world.33 Yoshino’s claim that Japanese valour is unmatched in the Three Lands is therefore synonymous with world supremacy. Yoshino’s comparison of Japan with China and India was made in the context of a long tradition of such comparisons, but the preceding review of the Buddhist texts which helped establish this world-view also highlights the nonreligious nature of Yoshino’s comparison. His is a comparison based purely on size, even if his conception of size has its root in the Buddhist canon.34 After reminding the reader of the grand sizes of other countries, he describes Japan as ‘but an island far in the eastern seas’. Of course, as the whole section essentially deals with the relative power of countries, Buddhist concerns with sequence or potency of transmission are irrelevant, whereas size is of great importance. Yet what we see is that an originally Buddhist conception of the world has become a commonplace framework through which to understand the world, even for someone writing from a military perspective. Yoshino’s comparison of countries demonstrates an excruciating awareness of Japan’s relatively minuscule size: ‘one hair among nine oxen’ (九牛が一毛). In this feeling he was not alone; modern Japanese historians refer to this sense of being a minute country on the periphery as hendo (shōkoku) ishiki 辺土(小国)意識. The Buddhist canon presented a view of a vast world, in which Japan could only be placed on the periphery as a ‘small country’. This sense of inferior size and position was probably compounded by Japanese contact with the Tang dynasty, and knowledge of the two country’s relative sizes. As we have already seen in Sanbō e, some Buddhist historians managed to convert inferiority into superiority by making Buddhism’s ‘final’ destination also its fulfilment.35 Even the story collections that did not claim this, inflated Japan’s position by making it one of the

Glory in defeat 47 Three Lands, rather than simply one of innumerable small countries. Concerned as he was with relative power and military prowess – who could conquer whom – Yoshino had to use a different strategy to compensate for Japan’s inferior size. For this purpose he invokes the idea of Japan as Land of the Gods. Land of the Gods and Korea The idea that Japan was the ‘land of the gods’ (shinkoku/kami no kuni 神國)36 was originally the concept that the country was a place of spiritual and/or Buddhist power.37 The idea was a broad one, encompassing Japan as a land protected by the gods, a land where worship of gods was widespread, and a land where the emperor and people were descended from the gods.38 Satō Hirō makes a careful study of the contexts in which we can see the term shinkoku used and finds that, domestically, it was used in debate and dispute between different shrines and temples and different sects while, in foreign affairs, the protection of the gods was famously called upon with a huge number of offerings at the time of the Mongol invasions.39 Yet even before the Mongol invasions of the twelfth century, the idea appears with particular frequency in relation to Empress Jingū’s 神功皇后 semi-mythical conquest of the Korean peninsula. Legend had it that Empress Jingū launched an expedition and conquered the San Kan 三韓 (K. Sam Han, C. San Han), a historical name for the Korean peninsula.40 This story was recorded in the famous history of Japan, Nihon shoki 日本書紀 (The Chronicles of Japan). In fact, the first known use of the phrase ‘Land of the Gods’ (shinkoku or kami no kuni) is in this Nihon shoki story.41 There has been much modern debate about the historicity of the Empress Jingū invasion, but for the purposes of the discussion here, suffice it to say that there is no evidence that it was doubted at the time of the East Asian War. Rather, Yoshino’s account of Japan as unconquered since the Empress’s Korean conquest reflects the on-going importance of this myth in how Japanese foreign relations were conceived. Centuries before the Mongol invasions, when ships from the kingdom of Silla on the peninsula made raids on the islands, an imperially commissioned address to be used at a shrine (告文) claimed that since Empress Jingū had conquered the San Kan (i.e. Korea), foreign ships dared not attack for fear of the gods.42 This idea seems to have persisted. Around the time of the Mongol invasions, we find claims strikingly similar to Yoshino’s account. For example, the Hachiman gudōkun 八幡愚童訓 states, ‘though [Korea] submitted to [Japan], our court has never belonged to another country.’43 Thus the aspect of the Land of the Gods discourse that pertained to foreign relations seems to have often been linked with the peninsula, with Empress Jingū’s conquest as the defining moment. Yoshino invokes the Land of the Gods narrative to counter Japan’s inferior size. His claim is that having this status, Japan ‘has the force of the Way of the Gods (shintō 神道) and dauntless courage; the valour of its people’s hearts surpasses that of all the Three Lands’. He continues that it is for this reason that Empress Jingū’s conquest was possible. This logic can be interpreted as an adaptation of an older idea to the specific context of the East Asian War. Earlier

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repulsions of invasions could be attributed to the power of the gods in a general sense, but Yoshino is a warrior, and personally witnessed the contrast of the warrior tradition in Japan and the relative lack of one on the peninsula.44 For him, Japan as the Land of the Gods is the cosmological explanation for the greater valour of the Japanese warrior, a valour that would be proven even as Japanese fighters were overwhelmed by superior numbers. Past glory and present defeat Explaining how Japan’s smaller size and peripheral position is compensated for by divinely-bestowed valour, Yoshino proves Japan’s status by pointing to the submission of its neighbours: ‘[ever since Empress Jingū] conquered Korea, Japan has not been conquered by another country, but rather tribute has been offered up to our court every year by Korea and Ryūkyū.’ He further adds, ‘this was the ritual precedent of previous eras,’ affirming this state of affairs as the proper order of the world. At this point his brush turns, however: ‘But now, when we are on the end of the 100 kings, and into the End Time, to fight over territory and assemble arms, I think is like to the mantis which opposed the carriage.’ This is not the triumphant voice of a warrior beginning his tale of glorious conquest. Though somewhat indirectly, Yoshino is making an unmistakable contrast between the order of old, established after Jingū’s conquest, and the current expedition. The pessimistic appraisal of the final metaphor is striking, especially when viewed in the context of the largely glorifying accounts that formed the mainstream Japanese textual tradition on the war.45 The idiom he uses refers to the Classical Chinese story of an insect fiercely attempting to block the passage of an approaching chariot, unaware of the ridiculous mismatch in strength.46 In not so many words, Yoshino is saying in 1593 that the war was hopeless from the start, and represented a huge underestimation of the opponent’s strength. The idea of a ‘fallen’ present after a glorious past – the End Time – is the device by which Yoshino reconciles Japan’s supremacy and its weakness. Here again, Yoshino is drawing on a Buddhist idea. The End Time (masse, matsudai 末世末代) refers to the final of three eras following the Buddha’s death, when it becomes more difficult to reach enlightenment. This was a widespread view from at least the eleventh century, with the Nihon ryōi ki stating that it was already the End Time in the tenth century.47 Yoshino grew up in a Japan torn by decades of civil war.48 ‘On the end of the hundred kings’ seems to point to a time when central power has broken down, and a glorious conquest led by a powerful monarch is the stuff of distant legend. In this way, Yoshino could imagine Japan as both possessing superior warrior qualities, and yet in this latter era no longer being in a position to assert its authority over its neighbours. We need to understand Yoshino’s preface against the historical background of the ideas he uses, but also as part of his memoir as a whole, and of his own experience in Korea. In the next section we therefore turn to the themes in Yoshino’s account of his war experience.

Glory in defeat 49

The Japanese in Chosŏn Gods of war After establishing Japan’s place in the world, Yoshino’s tale of the campaign begins with a vivid account of the Japanese arrival and their first battle on a foreign shore. Unsurprisingly for a warrior’s memoir, Yoshino describes the formidable nature of the opponent in order to emphasize the difficulty of defeating them. Arriving at Pusan, Yoshino and his comrades see the enemy is well prepared, and Yoshino details the wide array of defensive weapons, concentric fort walls, and their height.49 This sets the scene for a show of overwhelming force by the Japanese: musket fire – such that ‘the world became dark’ – is sustained over four hours until the defending forces are decimated.50 Once the Japanese entered the city, the battle descended into a massacre, but Yoshino does not shy away from describing the slaughter: Those [of the enemy] who could not hide in narrow spaces or under the floor in the houses gathered at the eastern gate.51 They all put their hands together and dropped to their knees. Their calling in a Kara speech which was unfamiliar to us, ‘manora, manora!’ sounded like ‘save us!’52 Yet our side did not listen to that either, and chopped them down and stamped them to death. Making this our blood sacrifice to the God of War, man and woman, dog and cat, we cut them all down.53 Enemy heads were seen to be around thirty thousand.54 The horror of what he is participating in is not lost on Yoshino. After concluding the account of the battle he cannot help returning to reflect on the massacre: Seeing such a happening, it was the anguish of sinners in deepest hell, suffering as they are punished for their deeds by the demons. The way we heard them cry out, hands clasped pleading for help, we thought ‘this is what it must be like’ – it was a tale of the afterlife. Seeing it here and now, I had the frightening realization that it was I who was the demon. But this thought bolstered my courage as a warrior.55 Yoshino is clearly shaken by the pitiful nature of the Koreans begging for mercy. After the next battle at Tongnae, he describes the scene of elderly parents fleeing after their children were killed, and says ‘one could not bear to look’.56 Yet, by overcoming his horror and concentrating on the power of his position as executioner, he increases his own sense of ‘courage’.57 There is a sharp contrast between the Korean defenders who cower like animals waiting for slaughter and the vicious attack of Yoshino’s own army. This experience would have surely bolstered his claim made in the introduction, that the ferocity and valour of the Japanese were unmatched in the world. Indeed, the confidence of Yoshino and his comrades in their own supremacy would have swelled as, after Tongnae,

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defending forces increasingly dissolved even before the Japanese could engage them. Yoshino compares the Japanese armies’ ease of victory at this point to a hawk catching small birds.58 Us and them The ease of the Japanese advance was such that in a matter of days they arrived at the capital, Hansŏng (Seoul), only to find it undefended. [The Chosŏn court had] fled towards Kara (i.e. China). Our army quickly stormed the palace and took up positions. All sorts of jewels, treasures, gold, and silver.… As they all fled without taking them, it became Japan’s treasure.59 It is not clear from this description what physically happened to this bounty: did the commander Yukinaga take guardianship of the treasure? Or did the soldiers each grab what they could? Whatever happened, it is revealing that Yoshino repeatedly talks of ‘Japan’ as winning the spoils of war. In decades of civil war in Japan it had long been each house for itself, but here in Chosŏn Yoshino does not talk in terms of the lords present (e.g. Matsuura, Konishi), or even simply ‘our side’ (mikata 味方, a phrase he also uses). The very next sentence in fact reminds the reader that the Japanese army was a disparate coalition of Hideyoshi’s vassals: Yoshino describes how the First Army under Konishi waited for other commanders, such as Katō Kiyomasa (famously Yukinaga’s rival), to join them. Yet Yoshino’s is not just a tale of valour in wars among noble warriors, but no less than a tale of Japan. The different daimyō vying for glory venture forth together as ‘the lords of Japan’, and the events unfold against the backdrop of that grand opening, in which Yoshino painted Japan’s position in the world.60 If Japan being the subject of the tale seems natural, what may appear odd to readers of our time is that Japan’s enemies are not neatly divided into ‘the Chosŏn people (/army)’, ‘the Ming army’, or ‘the Koreans’, ‘the Chinese’. During the initial attack at Pusan, to describe the well-prepared defences Yoshino says: ‘it was as if the Kara people had been waiting for the Japanese.’ When Japan first invaded there were only Korean defenders – the Chinese had not yet arrived. Though some have claimed this shows the Japanese did not even know whom they were fighting, we know that Yoshino was not confused as to his opponents’ identity, as he describes the Chinese arriving later in his tale.61 Yoshino was merely following common practice in Japan at that time in using the term ‘Kara’, which originally meant ‘Tang’ (as in the earlier Chinese dynasty), to refer generally to people from the continent.62 Yoshino identifies the country he was in as ‘Korai’ (Koryŏ, i.e. Korea) but by default talks about ‘(the people of ) Kara’, grouping all non-Japanese people together. Throughout the diary, the story is therefore not a three-way interaction between Japan, Chosŏn, and China but mostly a simplified battleline of Japanese (Nihon) vs. the

Glory in defeat 51 non-Japanese (Kara). We can suppose that Ming and Chosŏn forces allying to fight the Japanese reinforced the notion, already encouraged by the Japanese habit of grouping continentals together, that Korea belonged to a broader Sinosphere. Enter the dragon Yoshino was clear which specific countries they were fighting, however, as he shows us when writing about the next major battle. The Japanese had moved up from Hansŏng to take Pyongyang in the sixth month of 1592. It was the following month, at the first of two battles to retake Pyongyang, that the Chinese joined the fray: At this point there was a major event. On the border of Kara and Korea there is the country known as Liaodong and the Orangkai. (Called Ezo [presentday Ainu] in Japan; called, the Tartar [Dattan, C. Dada 韃靼] country in Kara land; and in Korea, the Orangkai.)63 Never in our dreams had we known that the warriors of both the countries would attack [Pyongyang] castle together, with more than sixty thousand steeds.64 The Ming force was despatched from Liaodong (the northeastern area beyond the Great Wall). Deputy Superintendent (副總兵) of Liaodong, Zu Chengxun, led a force of a few thousand (not 60,000) men to attack Pyongyang. The Orangkai refers to the Jurchen peoples living in what was later known as Manchuria, and with whom both the Ming dynasty and Chosŏn had difficult relationships, but which the northeastern Ming commanders did employ in Chosŏn.65 We see in this example that for Yoshino ‘Kara’ had a narrow meaning of China, as well its broader meaning which included those of the ‘border country’ Korea – all the peoples of the continent, perhaps.66 The reason Yoshino particularly emphasizes the different origin of the attackers at Pyongyang is to accentuate the ferocity of their attack – which the Japanese successfully repulsed. This becomes apparent as he narrates the aftermath of the victory: The emperor of Kara, on hearing [the Liaodong forces had been defeated], pronounced at a meeting: ‘the soldiers of Liaodong are the finest lancemen in our great land (daikoku). Yet they are no match for the soldiers of Japan.’ A general who had earned his fame in Liaodong, came as Imperial Emissary (chokushi) accompanied by five horsemen. He gave a document to a Kara person who knew Japan, who brought it straight into [Pyongyang] castle.67 By describing Liaodong as a land with the fiercest horsebacked warriors, Yoshino turns what was a small Japanese victory into a triumph over all of China. It is true that the comprehensive defeat of Zu Chengxun’s force came as a shock to the Ming court. Beijing sent representatives to negotiate a settlement as

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a means to buy time while a much larger army was mobilized. Under Yoshino’s storyteller’s brush, however, this became a recognition of Chinese inferiority. Moreover, it is none other than the Ming emperor himself who recognizes this inferiority. Yoshino breaks with his normal use of language to elevate the status of the Ming emperor using honorifics, thereby further elevating the recognition won by the brave warriors of Japan.68 Honourable discharge The successful defence of Pyongyang is the last real victory which Yoshino is able to narrate; the rest of his account deals with the awkward subject of Japanese defeat and retreat. Yoshino justifies retreat in the normal ways: employing the warrior-cum-storyteller’s artistic licence with the enemy’s numbers and ferocity, and pointing to extenuating circumstances. Yoshino’s extenuating circumstance of choice was lack of supplies, which was undeniably an important factor impeding the Japanese campaign. Chosŏn was not a very wealthy country, and it is too much to ask of any land to support three active armies at once. The combined burden of the Ming, Chosŏn, and Japanese armies fighting on the peninsula was crippling for the local population. The situation was exacerbated because much farmwork was discontinued from mid-1592, as farmers fled for their lives. This inevitably led to severe food shortages from the following winter.69 Japanese supply lines were also under pressure from Korean resistance on land and at sea. On top of all this, there was disease: even while stationed at Pyongyang, Yoshino tells of dwindling numbers.70 Finally, there was the bitter Korean winter; Yoshino wrote that it was so cruel that it disfigured even the fair beyond recognition.71 At the second battle of Pyongyang – an unequivocal defeat for the Japanese defenders, who were routed – Yoshino claims the enemy cavalry numbered an incredible one million – probably more than the combined forces fielded by China, Korea, and Japan at any point in the war. Following this, Yoshino did not admit general defeat, but intersperses tales of the subsequent fighting with an account of the on-going negotiations, which eventually lead to ‘success’ and a pass home for the Japanese troops. Just when the Japanese army is being tested to breaking point (owing to the extenuating circumstances), the Chinese negotiator Shen Weijing is true to his word and brings ‘hostages’. The daimyō seize on this as not something easily attainable, and certainly a consequence of their bu’un 武運 (martial fortune).72 Yoshino thus tells a story of valour proven and honour maintained, against incredible odds. While the fact that the Japanese end the campaign without any tangible gain is difficult to conceal, there is victory in defeat: they proved themselves superior warriors. Of key importance in the narrative, therefore, is the Ming emperor’s recognition of their superiority. As the highest authority in the great land of Kara, the emperor’s purported admission of inferiority is tantamount to announcing a Japanese victory. And yet, Yoshino knows that the Japanese army could not hold out against the ‘millions’ of Kara riders. This is

Glory in defeat 53 the message reflected in his introduction, when he claims a superior warrior nature for the Japanese, while conceding Japan attacking China-Korea to be like ‘the mantis which tried to block the chariot’.

One tale among many As we began by noting, Yoshino Jingozaemon’s memoir was one of many memoirs of the campaign (sōgunki 從軍記) written by his Japanese contemporaries. Yoshino was also not the only one to set the 1592 campaign against the background of Empress Jingū’s legendary conquest of the peninsula. On the contrary, the theme appears to have been ubiquitous in contemporary and subsequent Japanese accounts of the war. Kim Shiduck points out that other accounts also join Yoshino in contrasting the glorious past with a turbulent present, and mention ritual tribute previously paid by Korea to Japan as its subordinate.73 One contemporary memoir comparable to Yoshino nikki is Kōrai nikki 高麗 日記 (Diary of Korea). Kōrai nikki is attributed to Tajiri Akitane 田尻鑑種 of Chikugo 筑後 (on the southwestern isle of Kyūshū, from where Yoshino and much of the invading army came). Also the memoir of a warrior who fought on the peninsula from 1592 to 1593, it does not frame the whole story with historical background as does Yoshino. Instead, in the middle of the account of a battle, Tajiri launches off on a tangential narration of Empress Jingū’s conquest of the San Kan (i.e. Korea). In his study of the memoir, Kitajima Manji 北島万次 notes the justifying function of this narrative for Hideyoshi’s invasion.74 As well as Kōrai nikki, he has cited Yoshino nikki and several other contemporary accounts as evidence that both the myth of Empress Jingū and shinkoku 神国 (Land of the Gods) thinking saturated the outlook of the invading forces.75 What sets Yoshino’s tale apart is its more nuanced, sometimes critical, appraisal of the invasion and Japan’s place in the world. Japanese accounts almost universally glorified and justified the campaign.76 As we have seen, this generalization applies to Yoshino nikki to some extent, but he also questions at a fundamental level the wisdom of the campaign and Japan’s ability to rival its neighbours.

Conclusions Yoshino’s is a tale of Japan and a tale of the warrior.77 He glorifies the Japanese warrior as unmatched in the world, but he feels Japan’s inferiority particularly acutely: an insect against a chariot; a single hair among a herd of oxen. The metaphors he chooses seem an excessive belittlement of his country’s size. Yoshino and the Japanese army endured severe hardship during the campaign, but it seems that what left the deepest impression on him was the huge force of the Chinese army. We are inclined to dismiss figures such as ‘a million steeds’ as ridiculous exaggeration: more glory-seeking from a Japanese chronicler. But a holistic reading of Yoshino’s memoir suggests these numbers reflect a deep shock at disparity in strength, perhaps not previously anticipated.78

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In his imagining of the world, Yoshino is drawing on well-established ideas to understand his own immediate experiences and explain their wider significance. The basic ingredients of the world-view he paints appear in Japanese texts of centuries earlier, dating back to the Nihon shoki of 720 ce. The significance of Yoshino’s memoir is that, unlike the Nihon shoki, it is not an official history, nor is it the work of monks involved in diplomacy, such as the diplomats’ manual Zen rinkoku hōki.79 There is therefore a strong case that Yoshino nikki, along with other similar memoirs, reflects a spread of the ‘Land of the Gods’ narrative among wider society – at least in the warrior class. Due to the limited source base for comparison, it is difficult to judge how prevalent such ideas were before the war. What we can observe is the two-way process whereby the existing ideas of ‘Three Lands’ and ‘Land of the Gods’ shaped Yoshino’s thinking at the same time as his experiences shaped how he used those ideas. It is difficult to imagine his having put such intense emphasis on Japan’s inferior size had he never left the country, for example. The stark analogies Yoshino uses perfectly illustrate both sides of the superiorityinferiority complex that seems to have afflicted him after his experiences in Korea: a hawk catching small birds on the one hand and an insect resisting a chariot on the other. Yoshino transcends the contradiction at the heart of his account in two ways. First, he employs a glorious past, when Japan successfully conquered Korea, as a foil for the fallen present: nostalgia for former greatness offers solace in present-day defeat. He draws his main source of comfort, however, by imbuing the individual Japanese warrior with the supernatural ferocity of the gods. This allows him to safely admit Japan’s ‘Kara’ enemies their superiority in number and geographical size. Yoshino nikki is the author’s – perhaps cathartic – retelling of how he and his comrades first overwhelmed the Korean defenders, imagining themselves almost god-like as they destroyed all in their path, only to be overwhelmed themselves by a massively superior Chinese force. Yoshino cannot have been alone in his journey from hubris to painful realization to rationalization, of what the Japanese armies’ victories and defeats meant for Japan’s place in the world.

Notes 1 It has been suggested that the diary might have been written in 1616, but the evidence we have, including the signature line cited below, points to 1593 as the date of composition. For the 1616 suggestion see editorial note: JaHyun Kim Haboush, The Great East Asian War and the Birth of the Korean Nation, ed. William J. Haboush and Jisoo Kim (Columbia University Press, 2016), 179 note 10. 2 Fortresses were built to hold a beachhead in the south of the peninsula, but most Japanese forces were withdrawn and the invasion appeared all but over by mid-1593. Mary Elizabeth Berry, Hideyoshi (Cambridge, MA; London: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University, 1982), 214. 3 Throughout Yoshino’s narration, he describes himself as outside the daimyō and their immediate circle. He uses honorific verb-endings to describe his lords, and laments their having to suffer hardship to which they were not accustomed. 4 Most histories of the war narrate its course in terms of these men and their counterparts. They also attract dedicated studies of their own. As examples: Berry, Hideyoshi; Kitajima Manji 北島万次, Katō Kiyomasa: Chosen shinryaku no jitsuzō 加藤清正:

Glory in defeat 55 朝鮮侵略の実像 (Katō Kiyomasa: The Truth of the Chosŏn Invasion) (Tokyo: Yoshikawa kōbunkan 吉川弘文館, 2007). 5 It has been argued that warrior values became dominant values in the latter Middle Period (12th–15th centuries) through their dissemination in a variety of texts. While this may be overstated, that warrior-centred literature was influential cannot be denied. See: Saeki Shinichi 佐伯真一, ‘ “Yoshisada gunki” to bushi no kachikan’ 『義貞軍 記』と武士の価値観 (‘Yoshisada Gunki’ and Warrior Values), in Nit-Chū-Kan no bushōden 日中韓の武将伝, ed. Inoue Yasushi 井上泰至, Nagao Naoshige 長尾直 茂, and Chŏng Pyŏngsŏl 鄭炳說 (Tokyo: Bensei 勉誠, 2014), 7–20. 6 Kim Shiduck 金時德, ‘Yoshino Chingojaemon Pimangnok’ 요시노 진고자에몬 비 망록 (Memoir of Yoshino Jingozaemon), Munhŏn gwa haesŏk 문헌과 해석, no. 63 (2013):1–17. 7 See, for example: Kitajima Manji 北島万次, ‘Tajira Akitane no “Kōrai nikki” ’ 田尻 鑑種の「高麗日記」, Rekishi hyōron 歴史評論, no. 8 (1973): 110–28. 8 Yoshino nikki 吉野日記 is the title as recorded in Chūgai keii den sōkō, with Kōrai morokoshi no sōshi 高麗もろこしの草子 (Notes on Korea and China) recorded as an alternative title. Zoku Gunsho ruijū gives the primary title as Yoshino Jingozaemon oboegaki 吉野甚五左衛門覺書 (Memoir of Yoshino Jingozaemon). 9 Zoku Gunsho ruijū is a collection of Japanese literary and historical works that is attributed to Hanawa Hokiichi 塙保己一 (1746–1821), though it was not completed or published in his lifetime. Chūgai keii den sōkō was the unfinished work of Ban Nobutomo 伴信友 (1773–1846), collecting notes on historical relations with Chosôn and Ryūkyū, with the second-half dedicated to the war under the title ‘seijū ibun rui’ 征戎遺文類 (Remaining documents from the conquest of the barbarians). 10 Kim Shiduck points to textual difference to prove this point. Kim Shiduck, ‘Yoshino Chingojaemon Pimangnok’, 2. 11 The signature reads Matsuura Hizen nyūdō hōin-sō seishi Yoshino Jingozaemon 松浦 肥前入道法印宗靜士 吉野甚五左衛門 and is followed by kaō 花押 (indicating where the original seal of the author was impressed). Ban Nobutomo 伴信友, ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’ 中外經緯傳草稿 (Draft Account of Matters Domestic and Foreign), in Ban Nobutomo zenshū 伴信友全集, vol. 3 (Tokyo: Kokusho kankōkai 國書刊行会, 1907–1909), 347. 12 That Yoshino belonged to the house of Matsuura is further corroborated by the body of the text, as Yoshino’s narrative raises Matsuura’s importance to be almost equal with the leading commander Konishi. Kim Shiduck, ‘Yoshino Chingojaemon Pimangnok’, 2. 13 Hanawa Hokiichi 塙保己一, Zoku Gunsho ruijū 續群書類從 (Classified Collection of Books Continued), vol. 20下(卷 591) (Tokyo: Zoku gunsho ruijū kansei kai 續群 書類從完成会, 1923), 387; Kim Shiduck, ‘Yoshino Chingojaemon Pimangnok’, 1–2. 14 Under the rule of the Tokugawa 徳川 shogunate (1603–1868), there was an official ban on publications relating to Hideyoshi and his Korean invasion. Choi Kwan 崔官, Bunroku · keichō no eki: bungaku ni kizamareta sensō 文禄 · 慶長の役〔壬辰 · 丁酉 倭乱〕: 文学に刻まれた戦争 (The Bunroku-Keichō Expeditions (Imjin/Chŏngyu Waeran): A War Engraved in Literature) (Tokyo: Kōdansha 講談社, 1994), 238. 15 Hanawa Hokiichi, Zoku Gunsho ruijū, 20下(卷591):387. 16「船中にてかき申候間彌見え間敷候、 萬幸々々 / 釜山浦にて/文禄二年七月四 日」 Ban Nobutomo, ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’, 387a. 17 ‘Lords’: 大名. ‘Imperial decree’: 天下の御朱印. ‘Pacify a foreign country’: 異国た いぢ. 18 The lunar calendar used in Japan differed from the Ming/Chosŏn calendar. As such, while the 12th day of the third month corresponded to the same day in the Ming/ Chosŏn calendar, the 12th day of the fourth month in Japan corresponded to the 13th in the Ming and Chosŏn. As matching of dates is not relevant to the discussion here, subsequent discrepancies are not noted.

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19 Kim Shiduck, ‘Yoshino Chingojaemon Pimangnok’, 4. 20「武士に生まれん人々は、きこんしやうぼねつよくあ、むしやうにしてはおろ かなり」 ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’, 354a; Zoku Gunsho ruijū, 20下(卷 591): 387a. For this and all subsequent citations from Yoshino nikki, references to both versions are provided but the Japanese text provided is from the Chūgai keii den sōkō version. 21 The term Kara 唐 should not simply be translated, as is the following Tenjiku 天竺 (India), because it contains an important ambiguity. The Japanese had no direct contact with India so conception of it could remain simple. Kara is used to refer both to China and more widely to non-Japanese, even within Yoshino nikki. This is discussed further below. 22 Nanban 南蠻 referred to the islands to the south of Japan, e.g. Luzon (Philippines), or the people or things therefrom. At this time it included the Portuguese, who came to Japan from those islands. 23 Ryūkyū (now the island of Okinawa, now part of Japan): In the Zoku Gunsho ruijū version Liaodong is given in place of Ryūkyū, but this is probably a misreading of り うきう as りうとう. Such an error would have been encouraged by Liaodong appearing later in the text. During this period emissaries came regularly from the kingdom of Ryūkyū, whereas there was no official contact between Liaodong and the islands. 24 Ritual precedent: This is a translation of ‘せん禮’. This unusual spelling is homophonous with senrei (先例, ‘precedent’) but the character 禮 has been used instead of 例, so the word literally reads ‘former ritual’ instead of the usual ‘former example’ (i.e. precedent). 25 ‘Tribute’: kanmotsu 官物, alternatively ‘taxes’. ‘Mantis … chariot’: see note 45 below. 「抑むかしよりうつしおかれし世界の繪圖を見るに、 唐をば四百餘州、天竺は 十六の大國、十千の小國、南蠻高麗までつゞき渡て、その堺國は大河有と見へ たり、日本は東海はるかに隔だゝつて。わづかの嶋たり、大國にたくらぶれ ば、九牛が一毛たりといへども、日本は神國たり、よつて神道猛勇のき有、人 の心の武き事三國にもすぐれたり、其故に仁王十四代ちうあい天皇のきさき神 功皇后、女帝の身として三韓をきりしたがへ給ひしより已來、異國にもしたが はず、返て高麗りうきうより每年我朝にくわん物をそなへ奉る、是は上代のせ ん禮たり、今は百王の末となり、末世末代におよんで、國をあらそひ弓箭をも よほすこと、たうろうが斧とぞおもへる」 ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’, 347b; Zoku Gunsho ruijū, 20下(卷591): 378b–379a. 26 The term Kara was also used much more widely, as discussed below. 27 Yoshino does not use the Buddhist name Shintan 震旦 for China, common in discussion of the Three Lands in earlier Buddhist texts. To refer to Japan, as well as Nihon/ Nippon 日本 he uses wa(ga)chō 我朝 (‘our court’) in the section quoted above, rather than the honchō 本朝 seen in many earlier texts. For examples of earlier texts, see: Maeda Masayuki 前田雅之, Konjaku monogatari shū no sekai kōsō 今昔物語集の世 界構想 (Imagining the World in ‘Anthology of Tales from the Past’) (Tokyo: Kasama shoin 笠間書院, 1999), 99–127. 28 Nihon genhō zenaku ryōi ki 日本現報善悪霊異記 (Record of immediate consequence for good and evil and the miraculous and strange in Japan), attributed to Kyōkai 景戒. 29 Maeda Masayuki, Konjaku monogatari shū no sekai kōsō, 99–107. 30 Sanbō e kotoba 三寶繪詞 (The Three Treasures in pictures and words). 31 Maeda Masayuki, Konjaku monogatari shū no sekai kōsō, 107–110; Narusawa Akira 成沢光, Seiji no kotoba: imi no rekishi o megutte 政治のことば: 意味の歴史をめぐ って (Words of Politics: On the History of Meaning) (Tokyo: Heibonsha 平凡社, 1984), 133–139. 32 Maeda Masayuki, Konjaku monogatari shū no sekai kōsō, 112–127. 33 Ibid. at 212. 34 The ‘sixteen large countries and ten thousand small countries’ originate in early Buddhist texts. Narusawa Akira, Seiji no kotoba, 133.

Glory in defeat 57 35 Even when this inversion was not performed, Japan’s ‘lesser’ status was never taken as a basis for sustained pessimism, but rather as justification for a particular teaching. 36 Though translated here as ‘Land of the Gods’, the Japanese term kami 神 can refer to the spirits in objects or nature, as well as more ‘god’-like deities. 37 Satō Hirō 佐藤弘夫, Kami · butsu · ōken no chūsei 神 · 仏 · 王権の中世 (The Middle Period: Spirits, Buddha, and Monarchy) (Kyoto: Hōzōkan 法藏館, 1998), 335–336. Native Japanese deities were re-interpreted as manifestations of the Buddha or Buddhist deities. (Narusawa Akira, Seiji no kotoba, 321–325.) 38 Maeda Masayuki, Konjaku monogatari shū no sekai kōsō, 232. Regarding not only the emperor but the people of Japan all being descended from the gods, see Satō Hirō, Kami · butsu · ōken no chūsei, 333. 39 Ibid. at 328–334. 40 Originally, San Han was how historians of the Han 漢 dynasty (202 bce–220 ce) referred to the three groups/polities that occupied the southern part of the peninsula beyond Han control. 41 Maeda Masayuki, Konjaku monogatari shū no sekai kōsō, 232. 42 At that point in time it was more specifically the emperor who was subject to the gods’ protection; the sources being used are imperially commissioned appeals to the gods. Satō Hirō, Kami · butsu · ōken no chūsei, 319–320. 43「雖三韓歸此土 吾朝未屬他國」 Ibid. at 333. 44 The surrender and pleas for mercy of the Koreans make a deep impression on Yoshino, and the contrast with his power as executioner intensifies his warrior identity. See the section ‘Gods of War’. 45 Though there was a proliferation of accounts claiming glory for each house that took part, the Hideyoshi-centred Taikō ki 太閤記 is the classic example. 46 The story of a mantis trying to halt a chariot (or cart/carriage), unaware of the futility of its efforts, has its origin in the Classical Chinese text known as Zhuangzi 莊子. Chen Guying 陳鼓應, Zhuangzi jin zhu jin yi 莊子今注今譯 (Zhuangzi: Modern Annotations and Translation) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju 中華書局, 2001), 人間世(三) 128–129. 47 Maeda Masayuki, Konjaku monogatari shū no sekai kōsō, 99–107. 48 It was common for Japanese warriors’ memoirs of the war (sōgunki) to implicitly or explicitly describe the present times as turbulent. Kim Shiduck, ‘Yoshino Chingojaemon Pimangnok’, 3. 49 ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’, 348a; Zoku Gunsho ruijū, 20 下(卷 591):379a. 50 ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’, 348a–348b; Zoku Gunsho ruijū, 20 下(卷 591):379a–379b. 51 One version has river (川) in place of gate (門). Kim Shiduck points out this is probably due to the similarity of the two characters’ cursive script forms and suggests the word be read as river. Kim Shiduck, ‘Yoshino Chingojaemon Pimangnok’, 16fn7. 52 It is possible that ‘manora’ may be the author’s interpretation of a negative imperative in Middle Korean (i.e. ‘don’t [kill me]’), perhaps marăra (conceivably pronounced closer to ‘marora’). (Special thanks to Prof. Dr Marion Eggert and Dr Ekaterina Logunova for their advice on this point.) The Zoku Gunsho ruijū has ‘manō’, but this is probably a visual copying mistake of ‘manora’: まのら→まのう. 53 Blood sacrifice: chimatsuri 血祭り, a sacrifice made before a battle or at the start of a military campaign. 54「家のはざまや床の下、かくれがたなき者どもは、東の門にせきたゝみ、みな 手を合せてひざまづき、聞もならはぬから言、まのらまのらと云事は、助よと こそ聞へけれ、夫をも味方きゝつけず、きりつけうちすてふみころし、是を軍 神の血祭と、男女も犬猫も、みなきりすてゝきりくびは、三萬ほどゝぞみへに ける」 ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’, 348a–348b; Zoku Gunsho ruijū, 20下(卷591):379b. 55 In the original text, it is unclear whether the first person pronoun is singular or plural. 「かゝるためしを見る事は、 あび大せうのざい人が、あほうらせつの責をう け、呵責せらるゝかなしさは。助たまへと手を合せ、おめきさけぶと聞へし

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も、かくやあらんと思ひけん、夫はめいどの物がたり、今げんざいに見る事 は、我こそ鬼よ恐しや、思へばいとヾ武士の、いさみは彌まさりけり」 ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’, 348b; Zoku Gunsho ruijū, 20下(卷591):380a. 56 ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’, 380b; Zoku Gunsho ruijū, 20下(卷591):349a. 57 In any case, to show weakness would not have been proper in his warrior’s tale. For discussion of warrior values in the context of storytelling, see Saeki Shinichi, ‘ “Yoshisada gunki” to bushi no kachikan’. 58 ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’, 349b; Zoku Gunsho ruijū, 20下(卷591):381a. 59「唐國さして落にける、みかたはやがて公 中に、はや打入て陣を収、 七珍財寳 金銀や、けんふのたぐひに至るまで、みな取すてゝにげゝれば、日本の寶とな りにけり」 ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’, 349b; Zoku Gunsho ruijū, 20下(卷591):381b. 60 ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’, 347b; Zoku Gunsho ruijū, 20下(卷591):379a. 61 Hawley translated Yoshino’s ‘Kara’ as ‘Chinese’ and took this as evidence that the Japanese were ignorant of the land they were invading. This is both unfair to Yoshino, who showed himself able to distinguish between Korea and China, and risks missing the significance of what Yoshino’s language reveals: that those on the continent were envisioned as part of a single Sinosphere, distinct from Japan. Samuel Jay Hawley, The Imjin War: Japan’s Sixteenth-Century Invasion of Korea and Attempt to Conquer China (Conquistador Press, 2014), 138. 62 During this period, the term Kara was used to describe all people who came to Japan from the continent or simply from that direction. Seki Shūichi 関周一 and Tanaka Takeo 田中健夫, ‘Chūsei goki ni okeru “Tōjin” o meguru ishiki’ 中世後期における 「唐人」をめぐる意識 (Awareness around ‘Tōjin’ in the Latter Middle Period), in Zen-kindai no Nihon to Tō-Ajia 前近代の日本と東アジア (Tokyo: Yoshikawa kōbunkan 吉川弘文館, 1995), 61–77. 63 The section in parantheses does not appear in the Chūgai keii den sōkō version. It seems highly likely it is a later explanatory addition, but it is not distinguished from the text body in the Zoku gunsho ruijū version where it appears. 64「こゝに一っの大事あり、唐高麗のさかひなる、りうとう國と云國と、おらん かい（日本國にはゑぞといふ。唐土よりは。たつたん國。高らいよりはをらん かい）の兩國の武士どもが、六萬よきをもよほして平安の城にかゝりけるを、夢 うつゝにもしらずして」 ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’, 351a; Zoku Gunsho ruijū, 20下 (卷591):383a. 65 In present-day standard Korean, the final diphthong in Orangkai has simplified to a monophthong: Orangkae. As the note in Yoshino nikki explains, this was a Chosŏn term for the peoples on the country’s northern border, originating from the name of a group that once lived in that area. Rumours among Japanese troops may have been inaccurate regarding numbers, but Yoshino’s account nevertheless relieves any doubt that he was in ignorance of the distinct groups of which the enemy consisted. We know the Ming commanders employed Jurchen fighters; for example, Ma Gui is reported to have brought with him a thousand Jurchen horsemen in 1597. Oh Hŭimun 吳希文, ‘Swaemi rok’ 鎻尾錄 (Record of a Refugee) n.d., 丁酉(1597) 7.05, Jangseogak Royal Archives. 66 Yoshino never refers to Korea by the official name of the country, Chosŏn 朝鮮. Instead he refers to the country only as San Kan 三韓 (once, in the context of Empress Jingū’s invasion), Kōrai 高麗 (when distinguishing it from China), or simply as part of a wider Kara 唐 (for example, when talking of Kara people). 67「唐の帝は聞召、りうとう國の兵は、大國一の鑓つき也、扨日本の兵に、叶ふ まじとせんぎあり。りうとう國に名を得たる、ゆうけき將軍勅使にて、しうじ う五騎にて来りたり、日本國しる唐人に。文をもたせて真先に、 平安の城に 持参り」 ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’, 351b; Zoku Gunsho ruijū, 20下(卷591):383b–384a. 68 Yoshino uses the same word as was used for the Japanese emperor (mikado 帝), and an honorific form of the verb ‘to hear’, kikimeshi 聞召. Elsewhere in the memoir, honorific forms are reserved for the daimyō of Japan.

Glory in defeat 59 69 Devastating starvation occurred even in the relatively unaffected west of the country, with tales of cannibalism abounding. This is a dominant theme for these years in Oh Hŭimun’s diary: Oh Hŭimun, ‘Swaemi rok’. 70 ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’, 351b; Zoku Gunsho ruijū, 20 下(卷 591):384a. Crosspopulation contact brought on epidemics with an extraordinarily high death toll among the local populace as well. See the discussion of 1592–1593 in Chapter 3. 71 ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’, 353a; Zoku Gunsho ruijū, 20 下(卷 591):386a. 72 ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’, 353b; Zoku Gunsho ruijū, 20 下(卷 591):386b. The identity of these ‘hostages’ is not clear. 73 Kim Shiduck, ‘Yoshino Chingojaemon Pimangnok’, 3. 74 Kitajima Manji, ‘Tajira Akitane no “Kōrai nikki” ’, 112. 75 Kitajima Manji cites Kiyomasa Kōrai jin oboegaki 清正高麗陣覺書, Hizen nikki 肥 前日記 and Shukuro kō 宿蘆稿 as further contemporary texts framing the 1592 invasion in terms of shinkoku thinking and the legacy of Empress Jingū’s conquest. Shukuro kō went as far as to claim that Empress Jingū’s declaration that ‘Kara [continental] rulers are Japan’s dogs’ had been celebrated by the common people down to the present day (「昔時 神功皇后 […] 曰 唐土王者日本犬也 至今膾炙世俗之人 口矣」). Kitajima Manji, ‘Tajira Akitane no “Kōrai nikki” ’, 112; Kitajima Manji 北 島万次, ed., Toyotomi hideyoshi chōsen shinryaku kankei shiryō shūsei 豊臣秀吉朝 鮮侵略関係史料集成 (Tokyo: Heibonsha 平凡社, 2017), vol. 1, 354–5; Shukuro kō quoted in ibid., for original see Shukuro Toshitake 宿蘆俊岳, ‘Shukuro kō’ 宿蘆稿, in Zoku Gunsho ruijū 續群書類從, by Hanawa Hokiichi et al. 塙保己一 (National Archives of Japan: www.digital.archives.go.jp), vol. 415, 8b (image 12 of 24). 76 Individuals and houses needed to justify their participation, and could take the opportunity to gain status as great warriors. When Korean and Chinese versions of the war reached Japan, there was also a reactive motivation to create justifying counter-narratives. Sei Kan i ryaku, discussed in Chapter 7, is a good example of such a reaction. Kawaguchi Chōju 川口長孺, ‘Sei Kan i ryaku’ 征韓偉略, in Renchen zhi yi shiliao huiji 壬辰之役 史料匯集, vol. 2, Chaoxian shiliao congbian 朝鮮史料叢編 (Beijing: Quanguo tushuguan wenxian suowei fuzhi zhongxin 全國圖書館文獻縮微複製中心, 1990). 77 It is not by coincidence that Yoshino’s memoir opens with an apologetic for Japan’s status, and ends with an affirmation of how a warrior should live. 78 It was probably not only Yoshino that was deeply impacted in this way. In 1597 Hwang Shin was to report that the commander of Yoshino’s army, Konishi Yukinaga, became committed to pursuing negotiations after his experience of defeat at the hands of the Chinese at Pyongyang. ‘Sŏnjo sillok’ 宣祖實錄 (Annals of the Sŏnjo Reign) n.d., 1596.12.21, National Institute of Korean History. 79 Zen rinkoku hōki 善鄰國寶記 (Treasured Record of Good Relations with a Neighbouring Country), dated 1466 ce.

References Ban Nobutomo 伴信友. ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’ 中外經緯傳草稿 (Draft Account of Matters Domestic and Foreign). In Ban Nobutomo zenshū 伴信友全集, Vol. 3. Tokyo: Kokusho kankōkai 國書刊行会. 1907–1909. Berry, Mary Elizabeth. Hideyoshi. Cambridge, MA; London: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University. 1982. Chen Guying 陳鼓應. Zhuangzi jin zhu jin yi 莊子今注今譯 (Zhuangzi: Modern Annotations and Translation). 3 vols. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju 中華書局. 2001. Choi Kwan 崔官. Bunroku· keichō no eki: bungaku ni kizamareta sensō 文禄·慶長の役〔 壬辰·丁酉倭乱〕: 文学に刻まれた戦争 (The Bunroku-Keichō Expeditions (Imjin/ Chŏngyu Waeran): A War Engraved in Literature). Tokyo: Kōdansha 講談社. 1994.

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Haboush, JaHyun Kim. The Great East Asian War and the Birth of the Korean Nation. Edited by William J. Haboush and Jisoo Kim. Columbia University Press. 2016. Hanawa Hokiichi 塙保己一 et al. Zoku Gunsho ruijū 續群書類從 (Classified Collection of Books Continued). Tokyo: Zoku gunsho ruijū kansei kai 續群書類從完成会. 1923. Hawley, Samuel Jay. The Imjin War: Japan’s Sixteenth-Century Invasion of Korea and Attempt to Conquer China. n.p.: Conquistador Press. 2014. Kawaguchi Chōju 川口長孺. ‘Sei Kan i ryaku’ 征韓偉略. In Renchen zhi yi shiliao huiji 壬 辰之役史料匯集, Vol. 2. Chaoxian shiliao congbian 朝鮮史料叢編. Beijing: Quanguo tushuguan wenxian suowei fuzhi zhongxin 全國圖書館文獻縮微複製中心. 1990. Kim Shiduck 金時德. ‘Yoshino Chingojaemon Pimangnok’ 요시노 진고자에몬 비망록 (Memoir of Yoshino Jingozaemon). Munhŏn gwa haesŏk 문헌과 해석, no. 63 (2013): 1–17. Kitajima Manji. ‘Tajira Akitane no “Kōrai nikki” ’ 田尻鑑種の「高麗日記」. Rekishi hyōron 歴史評論, no. 8 (1973): 110–128. Kitajima Manji 北島万次. Katō Kiyomasa: Chosen shinryaku no jitsuzō 加藤清正: 朝鮮 侵略の実像 (Katō Kiyomasa: The Truth of the Chosŏn Invasion). Tokyo: Yoshikawa kōbunkan 吉川弘文館. 2007. Kitajima Manji 北島万次, ed., Toyotomi Hideyoshi Chōsen shinryaku kankei shiryō shūsei 豊臣秀吉朝鮮侵略関係史料集成, Vol. 1. Tokyo: Heibonsha 平凡社. 2017. Maeda Masayuki 前田雅之. Konjaku monogatari shū no sekai kōsō 今昔物語集の世界 構想 (Imagining the World in ‘Anthology of Tales from the Past’). Tokyo: Kasama shoin 笠間書院. 1999. Narusawa Akira 成沢光. Seiji no kotoba: imi no rekishi o megutte 政治のことば: 意味 の歴史をめぐって (Words of Politics: On the History of Meaning). Tokyo: Heibonsha 平凡社. 1984. Oh Hŭimun 吳希文. ‘Swaemi rok’ 鎻尾錄 (Record of a Refugee), n.d. Jangseogak Royal Archives. http://yoksa.aks.ac.kr. Saeki Shinichi 佐伯真一. ‘ “Yoshisada gunki” to bushi no kachikan’ 『義貞軍記』と武 士の価値観 (‘Yoshisada Gunki’ and Warrior Values). In Nit-Chū-Kan no bushōden 日中韓の武将伝, edited by Inoue Yasushi 井上泰至, Nagao Naoshige 長尾直茂, and Chŏng Pyŏngsŏl 鄭炳說, 7–20. Tokyo: Bensei 勉誠. 2014. Satō Hirō 佐藤弘夫. Kami · butsu · ōken no chūsei 神 · 仏 · 王権の中世 (The Middle Period: Spirits, Buddha, and Monarchy). Kyoto: Hōzōkan 法藏館. 1998. Seki Shūichi 関周一, and Tanaka Takeo 田中健夫. ‘Chūsei goki ni okeru “Tōjin” o meguru ishiki’ 中世後期における「唐人」をめぐる意識 (Awareness around ‘Tōjin’ in the Latter Middle Period). In Zen-kindai no Nihon to Tō-Ajia 前近代の日本 と東アジア, 61–77. Tokyo: Yoshikawa kōbunkan 吉川弘文館. 1995. Shukuro Toshitake 宿蘆俊岳. ‘Shukuro kō’ 宿蘆稿 (Shukuro Manuscript). In Zoku Gunsho ruijū 續群書類從, by Hanawa Hokiichi et al. 塙保己一, Vol. 415. 史 216–1. Kokuritsu kōbun shokan naikaku bunko 国立公文書館内閣文庫 (National Archives of Japan). www.digital.archives.go.jp. ‘Sŏnjo sillok’ 宣祖實錄 (Annals of the Sŏnjo Reign), n.d. National Institute of Korean History. http://sillok.history.go.kr.

3

Between a tiger and wolves

Oh Hŭimun, refugee in his own land

Swaemi rok 瑣尾錄 (Record of a Refugee) is possibly the richest single source from the war of 1592–1598 outside of the Chosŏn court records, which are unmatched in sheer volume. This is because Swaemi rok is both extensive – covering ten years from 1591 to 1601 – and broad in the areas of life which it records. It is a personal diary, but as this chapter will show, Oh Hŭimun 吳希文 (1539–1613) also recorded what he knew of the wider events going on around him. Not only is the breadth of information to which the author had access impressive, but his recording of events and his reactions ‘as they happened’ gives us the best possible insight into how the war looked to someone living through it rather than reflecting back on it. Through Oh’s recording of people’s lives around him, we gain insights into not only his experience, but what the war meant for the lives of so many on the Korean peninsula.

The author As the explanatory translation ‘Record of a Refugee’ implies, Oh Hŭimun used the word swaemi 瑣尾 in his diary title because it describes the pitiful state of wandering endured by someone displaced.1 This captures well the theme of the diary: Oh Hŭimun’s feeling of helplessness as he and his family were displaced again and again during the invasions of 1592–1598. From his repeated lamentation, we can sense that this self-pity did not begin with his experiences from 1592, but rather grew out of his longer life experience. Oh’s father died when he was very young, as did all his uncles, leaving his mother to raise him in relative poverty.2 Oh was educated, presumably with a view to taking the civil service examinations that would have won him employment and secured his family’s continued noble status as yangban 兩班 (the ruling class of civil and military officials and their families).3 Oh was never successful in becoming an official, however. As a result he was intensely aware that his wife, mother, and children were suffering poverty because of his failure to provide for them.4 Despite being financially poor, Oh could boast a noble family history stretching back thirteen generations to the time of the Koryŏ dynasty (935–1392) and his noble status provided him with potent social resources. We gain insight into the fascinating working of his social networks, seeing how he relied on his wife’s family and

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Oh Hŭimun, refugee in his own land

increasingly his son’s connections to survive. His diary of 1591–1601 traces a tangible turning point in family fortunes for the better, in that one of his four sons, Oh Yun’gyŏm 吳允謙 (1559–1636), rises in the ranks of the civil service – succeeding where his father had failed.5 After his father’s death, Oh Yun’gyŏm was to reach the very highest positions of government, such that his father was bestowed the posthumous title of Head of State Council (領議政). He dared not dream of such honour while alive. Though beyond the scope of this book, Oh Yun’gyŏm was to follow in the footsteps of the 1596 ambassador to Japan, Hwang Shin, and leave his own diary when he was sent to Japan to negotiate the return of abductees in 1617.6

The diary Oh Hŭimun, of course, knew none of this when he began writing his diary in 1591. Equally unaware of the impending invasion, Oh started a modest travel diary, jotting occasional descriptions of his journey south to visit relatives and manage his assets. As news of the Japanese landing in the southeast reached him in Chŏlla, he began committing his worries to paper. Soon the diary became a daily habit, which he rarely broke over the remaining nine years. What he later named Swaemi rok seems to have provided him with a sort of comfort in the midst of an unpredictable situation. His absolute consistency in writing in Classical Chinese rather than colloquial Korean meant that he was placing his writing in that long and vast tradition of Chinese writing. This provided a familiar context of meanings in which to make sense of the chaos, but also probably came out of a deep longing to prove his literary abilities and his learning, which he had never succeeded in proving through the civil service examinations.7 Oh’s chosen medium of Classical Chinese meant that his whole experience was – at times implicitly, at times explicitly – set within an established literary frame of reference. Chosŏn, its officials, and all that goes on are discussed in terms of the historical (largely Chinese) precedent, in which Oh and his peers had all been brought up. This begs the question of readership: for whom did Oh write? To this there is no definite answer. He wrote at least partly for himself, and we see him looking back through earlier years of the diary already in the latter years of the war.8 It is unlikely that he envisaged, or that the diary enjoyed, any kind of wide audience, if only because the intensely personal account would have been of little interest to contemporaries. The changing prices of goods; what food he received from whom; that after giving birth his daughter-in-law had soup made with seaweed bought from a Jeju-island boat;9 that Oh was deeply upset when one of his slaves (nobi 奴婢)10 starved himself to death after his partner and another slave eloped; that when a further slave had her head forcibly shaved by her partner’s jealous former wife, Oh ordered the perpetrator arrested;11 that one year mice ruined the family’s silk-thread production; or that he increasingly received Japanese and Chinese goods as gifts12: the endless minutiae of his daily life are now invaluable to social and cultural historians but would have had little appeal to his

Between a tiger and wolves 63 contemporaries. Oh’s recording of military and political events as he first hears about them can now be used as complementary evidence for what happened in such controversial events as the siege at Ulsan 蔚山, but they would have been old news for those who had lived through the war themselves.14 Thus in taking Oh’s diary as a historical source, we should bear in mind that he would have been self-conscious when writing, expecting others to read the diary, but that it is likely he envisaged sharing it only with family or close friends. The diary, a page of which is shown in Figure 3.1, was certainly prized by his family in subsequent years. In 1909, one member of the Oh family wrote that from when he was a child he had heard how the ‘Head of State Council’s diary’ was kept by the senior descendant line. The year before, he and another cousin had determined to ask to see it, and then decided that they must copy the diary in order to preserve it. The seven books of what appears to be the original manuscript written by Oh Hŭimun were then shared out to the different branches of the family in order that they could make copies.15 The Ohs’ original intention 13

Figure 3.1 Facsimile of the Swaemi rok 瑣尾錄 manuscript (v. 1, 6b): Oh Hŭimun reports, inter alia, the plight of conscripts and common resentment of the state.

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Oh Hŭimun, refugee in his own land

had been to publish the diary, but they decided this would be difficult in the circumstances: 300 years on, the Japanese were in Chosŏn once more and the country was in a very different state of political upheaval.16 It was not until much later in the twentieth century that a group of academics undertook the work of photographing and transcribing the diary, and making it available to wider society in an annotated edition in 1962. Since then it has been made available digitally and translated into modern Korean, as the rich potential of the diary as a source is appreciated more and more widely.17 After four centuries, Swaemi rok is now more valuable than ever, giving us a window into the daily life on the Korean peninsula at the end of the sixteenth century.

1592–1593, ‘over by new year’ When the shocking reports of a Japanese invasion reached Oh in 1592, he took refuge with his brother-in-law’s family in the hills near where he had been staying in Chŏlla province. His brother-in-law, Yi Bin 李贇 (1532–1592), was the local official in Changsu 長水 (see Map 3.1), and for a time gave Oh daily reports of the situation. Oh waited on tenterhooks as reports came of the Japanese army making straight for the capital and pressing all the way up over the northern Chosŏn border towards China, but Chŏlla province in the west was not attacked directly. This was partly owing to Admiral Yi Sunshin blocking Japanese supply lines by maintaining Chosŏn naval supremacy on the west coast, but also due to the efforts of self-organized defence forces such as the one led by Yi Bin, who died in battle that year.18 Oh was particularly affected by Yi Bin’s death, dreaming of him for years afterwards. Around this time he also described how he cried on reading the king’s woeful and self-reprimanding proclamation from his position of refuge at the Ming border.19 Of course, the safety of Oh’s family whom he had left in the now-abandoned capital was his primary concern. After weeks of anxious waiting, Oh finally reunited with his wife near Hongju 洪州, in the tenth month, though he was still beset by anxiety as he waited to hear what had happened to his mother and brother’s family. Oh and his wife stayed for the time being in a room at a friend’s house. At the end of the eleventh month, Oh received word that his family had made it out of the capital in time, though some of the family slaves were captured by the Japanese. At this point the postal service was functioning well enough for his brother Oh Hŭich’ŏl 希哲 to send him a letter with news.20 Oh’s family knew they could not stay too long in their friend’s overcrowded house, so made arrangements, and eventually succeeded in purchasing land in Imch’ŏn 林川, to which they moved in the sixth month of the following year.21 At first, Oh Hŭimun had expected the invaders to be gone within a few months, but the news that came to him instead was mostly of desertions from the Chosŏn army. Oh understood chronic desertion to reflect the deep resentment of the populace to excessive forced labour (state-imposed corvée duty) and the brutal punishments used to enforce it – a resentment which attempts to build fortifications ahead of the invasion had only worsened. Oh wrote that the general

Between a tiger and wolves 65

Map 3.1 Map showing the location of Changsu, where Oh Hŭimun’s brother-in-law was the local official and initially provided him with daily reports of the developing situation.

populace across the east and west of the peninsula did not trust the state to protect them, even hoped the enemy would come sooner, and waited only for the first opportunity to flee into the woods.22 Amidst this stream of desperate news, encouraging word came of volunteer resistance forces established by yangban in the provinces. Oh received many of these would-be commanders’ Calls to Arms (kyŏngmun 檄文), but he himself could but sigh that he was too old and incapable to be of use to his country.

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Alongside news of some small guerrilla victories and the actual movements of the Japanese, excited rumours of what was happening evidently swirled around the country. At one point, even a fanciful report that Hideyoshi had been killed by assassins from the kingdom of Ryūkyū raised false hopes.23 As the winter deepened on the Korean peninsula, hunger and disease followed in the footsteps of the invading armies. As an upper class (yangban) family, the Ohs had superior resources to resist the onset of famine, and were in one of the few parts of the country not directly affected by the invasion, yet class was no safeguard against disease. Soon after the invasion began, an epidemic – or a series of them – struck, claiming untold numbers of lives. Almost everyone in Oh’s family was affected, and for three months Oh’s diary was silent as he was incapacitated by illness.24 This was the only significant gap in his daily recording of events and thoughts. The first good news to arrive was that the Chinese would indeed come to Korea’s aid. After initial disappointment and delay, the Ming-led victory at Pyongyang in the second month of 1593 marked the first great turning point in the war. Oh responded in jubilation by exclaiming that ‘the rebirth of Korea (Sam Han 三韓, J. San Kan) truly relies on Imperial [i.e. the Ming emperor Wanli´s] benevolence.’25 Yet the end to the invasion within a few months, which Oh had expected even before the Chinese troops’ arrival, did not come.

1593, Chinese insult to Japanese injury Oh’s ecstatic gratitude towards the Ming rapidly dissipated when Ming commanders, led by Song Yingchang 宋應昌 (1536–1606) and Li Rusong 李如松 (1549–1598), insisted on a ceasefire. Even before the battle of Pyongyang, the Chinese policy of ostensibly pursuing peace negotiations was difficult for the local populace to accept: rumours of Chinese betrayal were running wild, and Oh even recorded a report that the Chinese were drinking and making merry with the Japanese – though he later diligently added a note that this report was false.26 Indignation at the Chinese for refusing to go on the offensive after Li Rusong’s defeat at Pyŏkchegwan 碧蹄館 seems to have reached fever-pitch in the spring and summer of 1593.27 When he was not meeting with friends to discuss the latest news, Oh expressed his consternation in his diary entries. In his anger at the Ming pursuit of peace, Oh Hŭimun argued that their failure to punish the Japanese was putting the reputation of the Ming Empire itself at stake. His frustration was so intense because after the initial collapse of Chosŏn forces, it was clear to all in Chosŏn that they could not achieve revenge without China’s help. Oh writes: ‘that the Celestial Generals want to forcibly make peace, not only greatly damages Celestial Awe (ch’ŏn ui 天威, C. tian wei) [i.e. the respect or fear which the Empire commanded], but when will our country’s unforgivable grievance be avenged?’28 Song Yingchang himself is recorded as having earlier admitted that defeat would damage the ‘awe’ China projected. ‘It is not only your country, what about China?’ he reportedly said in a conversation copied out by Oh in his diary.29 In that conversation with Chosŏn official Yun

Between a tiger and wolves 67 Tusu 尹斗壽 (1533–1601), Song Yingchang is recorded as having spoken in a tone of supreme self-satisfaction about China’s inherently exceptional position in the world: To all sides of the Celestial Court are barbarians (manyi). If one day they invade then we punish them; if the next they request to pay tribute then we permit them. This is simply the attitude of cherishing life and loathing murder – the Way of Heaven and Earth.30 This quotation from Song is typical of the speech and writings of Ming high officials that Oh recorded: it radiates an unassailable self-righteousness. We can understand such an attitude among Chinese officialdom if we remember that they had literally just turned from pacifying opposition in another corner of the empire. Chosŏn was but a small part of the Ming periphery, and the Ming could reasonably be assured of its ultimate strategic superiority.31 It could therefore comfortably take on the mantle of this ancient imperial rhetoric. Oh Hŭimun was arguing that its failure to rid Chosŏn of the Japanese would strip the Ming of that mantle, leaving its enemies emboldened to oppose Ming rule. Far more important for Oh and his peers than ‘Celestial Awe’, however, was expelling the Japanese and exacting revenge on them for their crimes – the most serious of which he and Chosŏn officials felt to be the desecrating of the royal tombs.32 Every report of warming relations between the Ming and the Japanese provoked a fury. One of the most violently expressed sentiments in Swaemi rok comes when Oh Hŭimun heard one such report: They say that when the Celestial Ambassador arrived, he also left giving a guarded escort to the Japanese brigands. [It makes me] so painfully furious I would die, so painfully furious I would die!33 In this same diary entry, Oh recorded how Chosŏn had been reprimanded for breaking the ceasefire (negotiated unilaterally by the Ming). Oh saw a message attributed to Ming commander Song Yingchang, in which Song demanded that the Chosŏn authorities identify the culprit for a recent killing of a Japanese and punish him according to military law: If you privately take revenge, and act so insubordinately and recklessly, then that would be the Japanese (barbarians)34 being obedient, and Chosŏn rather being rebellious. Last year, when the Japanese dogs35 invaded, why did the ruler and subjects of this country not close the city gates and fight to the death, instead scattering like the wind, so that the dynastic shrine is in ruins, and the ruler had to flee? If it had not been for the Celestial Court enacting benevolence in caring for the weak, preparing an army to save [Chosŏn] from the fires, then Chosŏn territory would have descended into the possession of the Japanese dogs. [You people of Chosŏn] do not know to be grateful for mercy and obediently receive orders, and still wish to use the excuse of exacting revenge to murder individual Japanese. How shameful!36

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Such dismissive and unsympathetic utterances from Ming officials are plentiful in the court records, but here we see that they were circulating more widely, and much to the chagrin of people in Chosŏn, if Oh’s reaction is any indication. Song is here pitilessly exposing Chosŏn weakness and exploiting to the full the moral highground the Ming could claim as benevolent saviours. What led to Oh’s great frustration was that Chosŏn had no choice but to ‘gratefully obey’ as Song demanded. In response to Song’s statement, we see Oh wrestling with this quandary: For a subject to die is nothing to speak of, but to offend the superior country, that is a matter that must be reckoned. […] And yet if our country’s grievance that reaches as high as the heavens cannot be avenged, and [they] return to their islands untouched, could the pain of the servants and people [of Chosŏn] be expressed in words? Still, Celestial Awe will henceforth be critically damaged. How will the Japanese brigands not be filled with disdain?37 As the spring of 1593 stretched into summer, the Ming officials in Chosŏn continued to impose the ceasefire, but the Japanese did not hold to their part of the bargain. Oh had accepted the explanation commander Song Yingchang circulated to military officials in Chosŏn (and Oh, as ever, somehow managed to obtain) that he knew the Japanese could not be trusted, and that for Song peace talks were simply a tactic to lull the Japanese into letting down their guard. Konishi Yukinaga and his coterie pleaded that they had desired to reach the Ming through Chosŏn to pay tribute, not to conquer. Song and other Ming officials were open in their scepticism of the Japanese claim and of the efforts of Ming negotiator Shen Weijing 沈 惟敬 (d. 1598), who continued his secretive talks with Yukinaga.38 Despite the peace process ostensibly continuing, however, the Japanese broke the ceasefire. At the end of June they laid siege to the city of Chinju 晉州 and, when it fell, massacred the inhabitants. Chinju was in a strategic location but appears to have been attacked out of retribution: it had been almost alone in holding firm against Japanese attack the previous year. Conflicting rumours reached Oh every day, with differing stories of how the city finally fell. Stories immediately emerged of the heroism of the commanders who died defending the city, and the court was quick off the mark in promoting them, telling how each of the commanders singlehandedly despatched seven or eight ‘brigands’ before they were hit by a musket ball – one simply bandaged himself and continued fighting after being shot.39 Yet shock and grief quickly turned to anger as, amidst the news of valiant sacrifice and loss, came word that Chinese officers had physically prevented their Korean counterparts from going to attack the Japanese. Oh expressed incomprehension at the Chinese: The commanders wanted to move in to attack, and had already agreed how to do so. When they went to take their leave from the Chinese commanders, Commander Liu Ting called in Pak Chin and the others and tied them up all day long in the courtyard, so that they could not attack the brigands, it is

Between a tiger and wolves 69 said. This is not only refusing to cooperate to attack the brigands, but going as far as to stop our country’s commanders from attacking at will, and humiliating them by tying them up. If their wish is to help the brigands, then I do not know where their intent lies.40 The timing of this news of Chinese intervention was truly adding insult to injury. In writing the diary entry, Oh seems to have become heated, and his mind jumps to the other negative reports he had heard about the Chinese: I also heard that the Tang troops travelling down to the Chŏlla area have been looting households along the way wantonly, undisciplined in the extreme. [The area] is as if struck by brigands.41 Attacks by Chinese soldiers were not uncommon. The grand claims of high Ming officials stood in stark juxtaposition to the attacks, looting, and general abuse by the Ming army that runs as a string throughout Swaemi rok. There are simply too many incidents that Oh records to list them all here. Over the following years, as well as general looting, stories of injustices were common. For example, he heard of Chinese troops stealing people’s property, getting into a fight, and then forcing the local official to punish those who resisted them.42 Another acquaintance tells Oh how the Ming ambassador to Japan, Li Zongcheng 李宗城, whom he had been entertaining, fails to keep his subordinates in check, leaving them to steal and to abuse Chosŏn officials.43 Oh expresses despair when, on top of tales of the Ming ambassador’s greed, he hears tell that Song Yingchang and Li Rusong were lying to Beijing, reporting that the Japanese had already left.44 Yet, even during the period of what appears to have been popular outrage against Ming rapprochement with the Japanese, Oh’s feelings towards the Chinese were complex. In juxtaposition to his fury was an evident reverence and curiosity towards these representatives of the Great Ming. For many people in Chosŏn, the arrival of the Ming army would have been the first time they had seen Chinese people in the flesh. Oh Hŭimun’s writings about his sightings of Chinese troops betray an almost childlike keenness to goggle at these ‘Tang people’ (唐人), as Oh consistently refers to them.45 All the while, Oh was keenly aware that marauding Chinese troops were to be avoided. In May 1593, Oh’s son Yunhae 允諧 (b. 1562) relays to him the impressive sight of ‘Tang troops’ (唐兵) marching in the capital, and Oh records this in graphic detail. Yet in the very same month Oh hears how people are moving home to avoid harassment from nearby Chinese troops.46 Conflicting senses of wonder and admiration on the one hand and fear and indignation on the other sit side-by-side in Oh Hŭimun’s writing.

1593–1594, surviving disease and famine Under the ceasefire, the fear of Japanese attack receded slightly but normal life could not resume. Armies on all sides were weakened as food shortages and

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disease took their toll, but inevitably it was the civilian population which suffered most. The twin forces of hunger and disease combined to create a ravaging storm. In an endless stream of news, Oh heard of friend after friend, relative after relative who had died from disease; he lost one of his sisters as well as several infant grandchildren.47 When the relatively well connected Oh family is reduced to eating bark, the fate of the wider population can be imagined.48 A report from Oh’s slave Makjŏng 莫丁 gives an indication of what it was like for those of lower class: in 1594 Makjŏng learned that forty of his relatives had died – only one elder brother survived.49 Around Oh in Chŏlla, the roads were literally lined with corpses, even while full of people on the move looking for refuge. The previous summer Oh had noted the fields were all empty around Chŏnju 全州 – an important agricultural area – as people fled corvée service; now Oh commented that there were fewer beggars coming to the door in Imch’ŏn than in the previous year – everyone said they had died over the winter.50 Rumours reach Oh that in the areas more directly affected by the invasion it is much worse. He heard that in the capital, whereas a few months earlier people might have killed you to steal your rice, now they would kill you to eat you; meanwhile the people in the southeast were reduced to cannibalizing family members.51 The great concern was that in the west of the country where Oh was, field after field lay empty, while the prisons were full: the men were fleeing conscription, and their families were being held ransom.52 One can see the desperation of the Chosŏn state at this point in the war. They needed men immediately to man the front and transport supplies, but these were the very men who should be farming. Later in 1594, popular resistance took the form of increasingly open rebellion, with frequent gaol-breaks.53 Deeply moved by the suffering around him and fearful of his own desperate situation, Oh lamented the fate of the people of Chosŏn: ‘how pitiable are we people of the East!’54 Tellingly, even in an environment of poverty and death, Oh Hŭimun never ceased to be an aristocrat: never once did he perform any type of manual labour. Instead, he spent his days with other male noble (yangban) friends – though many of these friends did not survive 1594.55 These days of socializing were not idly spent: as he relied almost entirely on local officials providing his family with food, the men engaged in this socializing around the local magistrate’s office were in fact cultivating the connections that kept them and their families alive. Obtaining rations sometimes involved outright corruption: Oh’s family relied for one period on an official who issued them extra food under false names.56 The lower classes of course did not have such access to state power, and were far more likely to have demands made of them by the state: corvée labour duties were difficult to avoid. Social gatherings also allowed for sharing of news, including continued consternation at the Ming pro-peace position. Oh recorded his exasperation on hearing how one of the most respected (and elderly) Chosŏn volunteer commanders Kwŏn Yul 權慄 (1537–1599) was beaten by Chinese commander Liu Ting 劉綎 (d. 1619) for attacking the Japanese and thus breaking the ceasefire.57

Between a tiger and wolves 71 A ray of hope came when an official on leave from the capital brought news of unofficial talks between monk commander Yujŏng 惟政 (1544–1608) and Japanese commander Katō Kiyomasa 加藤 清正 (1562–1611). The hope was that Kiyomasa did not support Hideyoshi’s grand schemes and impossible demands. Rumours even sprang up that Hideyoshi had killed Kiyomasa’s family, but Oh discounts this as improbable. Talks with Kiyomasa were an alternative to the talks Ming-appointed Shen Weijing was holding with the other main Japanese commander – and Kiyomasa’s rival – Yukinaga. The unofficial talks with Kiyomasa did not lead to concrete progress and, when the Shen-Yukinaga peace plan finally and dramatically failed in 1596, it would be Kiyomasa who led the second invasion in 1597. In general, this was a period of great uncertainty, with no clear route out of the quagmire. Oh was beset with worry: Our country’s military strength is no match [for the Japanese]. If Heaven helps, [the plot to cause rebellion within Japanese ranks] will surely be successful. [Heaven] will surely not further place this battered remnant of a people under the sword, nor drive a land of propriety and righteousness into barbarian customs! The Way of Heaven is to give just rewards; it must repent its violence. Of this only can we be sure. It is also said that the Celestial Dynasty [i.e. China] has ordered Commander Liu to withdraw his forces and return. They particularly cannot be relied upon.58 This excerpt captures well Oh’s outlook on the wider war situation. He portrays the people of Chosŏn as helpless: on the brink of being overwhelmed by the savage Japanese, unprotected by an impotent Chosŏn army, and dependent on unreliable Chinese protection. Oh Hŭimun had long since lost all faith in the Chosŏn court to save the people: a few months later he exclaims that the endlessly bickering factions at court will not be content until they have destroyed the country.59 The feeling that the people of the country had been abandoned by their government gave rise to a strengthened sense in Oh’s writing of shared victimhood as part of ‘this battered remnant of people’. At the same time the land and people seemed to face an existential threat: all the values that defined Chosŏn and its status as what we might call civilized (a ‘land of propriety and righteousness’) risked being submerged by what Oh and those around him depicted as a wave of barbarity.

1594, living with the Japanese Two years had passed since the Japanese armies arrived on the peninsula, but during that time – and for the remainder of the war – Oh Hŭimun never seems to have actually laid eyes on a Japanese person. Oh’s knowledge of the Japanese was therefore entirely second-hand. Some information was more reliable, some less so; Oh himself complained that Chosŏn people all ran away when they heard the Japanese were coming so it was difficult to obtain accurate information about

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them.60 Yet through his diary we see how the Japanese were portrayed in the stories that circulated. In parts of the country directly controlled by the Japanese, people would have formed their own conclusions, but much of the population would have formed their impression as Oh did, through stories they heard. The stories that arrived immediately after the first invasion were of savages. As well as terrible slaughter, Oh was greatly distressed by news of other barbaric behaviour. For example, an official relayed the testimony of one of ‘the captured men and women of our country’61 who had escaped, reporting that the Japanese had rounded up five boat-loads of noblewomen in the southeast. Before being shipped to Japan, the women were raped and then forced to make themselves up (presumably to increase their value as gifts or commodities). Those whom the Japanese considered not up to standard were repeatedly raped. Reports such as this abounded, and Oh could only exclaim ‘it is so horrific, so horrific!’62 The image of the Japanese that reached Oh was not simply one of savagery, however. The seemingly unstoppable force of the Japanese invasion led to a lasting awe at their martial prowess. In addition, the Japanese appeared fickle. Oh copied out Xu Yihou’s report and other documents from China giving information on the Japanese, which shows that these were circulating. Yet, Japanese thinking and cultural norms seem to have remained opaque to most people in Chosŏn, with the result that a view of them as unpredictable dominated. The following diary entry shows how fear and distrust contribute to the image of the Japanese as a violent and unpredictable people of superior martial prowess: I heard that there is a constant stream of surrendered Japanese, who are being distributed throughout the army. Many are also going to the capital. In the offices on the way, if they are even slightly dissatisfied, they become angry and disrespect the local official. Sometimes they even strike with their sword, and many of our country’s people have been injured. One can but sigh! It is said that they will attack the capital directly in the eighth or ninth month. If that is true, then the battered remnants of the people will all be ghosts filling the ditches! We will die without a burial! They say that even the Tang [i.e. Chinese] soldiers are afraid of the surrendered Japanese, and keep clear of them rather than standing up to them. Then what of the people of our country? This especially makes one sigh.63 Here and elsewhere we see that the Japanese as Oh Hŭimun came to see them were not only violent, but unpredictable, little understood, and feared by both Ming and Chosŏn officials. We can see here how Oh frequently viewed the situation as hopeless at this time. He was living in real fear for the people of Chosŏn, of whom he and his family were inextricably part.

1594–1595, everyday life continues Reading Oh’s diary, it is sometimes surprising how, despite the wartime circumstances, aspects of life continued as normal. The local official Shin Ŭnggu

Between a tiger and wolves 73 申應榘 (1553–1623) asked for Oh Hŭimun’s eldest daughter’s hand in marriage in the summer of 1594. Shin and the family had travelled together at the beginning of the war.64 We are treated to wonderful detail when Oh describes how he hid during part of the ceremony because he did not have the appropriate ceremonial robes (he had hoped to borrow them from an official, but could not as the official was occupied hosting a Ming officer’s visit).65 The presence of Ming officials and the burden on Chosŏn officials and the populace of providing adequate hospitality is a running theme throughout the entirety of Oh’s diary. So is uncertainty: the wedding was rushed and the mother-in-law-to-be said a minimal dowry would be sufficient, because it was rumoured the Chinese might pull out very soon, and the Japanese would run amok once more.66 This was a second marriage for Shin, who was much older than Oh’s daughter, but the significance of the marriage soon becomes clear: the Oh family immediately began to receive daily food parcels brought by state slaves (官奴).67

1596, the prospect of peace By 1596, a prolonged period of relative peace meant that food became less scarce, as people returned to the fields to work. Oh Hŭimun was well aware that the state was still struggling, however, and worried how Chosŏn could bear the burden when he heard that Imperial Ambassador Shen Weijing would be passing through (on his way to Japan).68 The local official whom he approached to ask for food had no time for him, and hurried off to make preparations.69 As to the peace negotiations which Shen led, Oh’s position shifted perceptibly around this time. His earlier anger that the Chinese would seek peace with those who had violated Chosŏn gave way to the wish only that safety from invasion could be secured. In the first month of 1596 he was still invoking Chosŏn’s ‘irreconcilable enmity’ (不共之仇) with Japan, but by the fourth month he admitted that the peace negotiations would be worth it if only the Japanese would leave: ‘the delight and celebration of the whole country would be beyond words.’70 Also around this time, there is a shift in Oh’s writing about Japan. While in the first years of Oh’s diary the Japanese predominantly appear as a violent horde sweeping the country, latterly Oh Hŭimun seems to have become more aware of the country to which the invaders belonged. This is reflected in a shift in his use of language. Previously he tended to refer to them as Wae 倭, the ethnonym still linked with the Japanese today, which had for centuries been linked with sea raiders, when he was not talking about the chŏk 賊 (‘brigands’). By 1596 he shifted to talk about the country ‘Japan’ (Ilbon 日本).71 This reflects the changing context of the war: peace negotiations appeared to be progressing and the Chosŏn government was being reluctantly pulled into diplomatic engagement with Japan. Oh was soon to learn much more about Japan through that diplomatic process. Despite the Japanese not having withdrawn all forces from the peninsula as promised, and despite the mysterious flight of the original Ming ambassador

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from the Japanese camp where he was waiting to sail, a small but determined group led by Shen Weijing and Yukinaga succeeded in pushing ahead with sending a Ming embassy to invest Hideyoshi as ‘King of Japan’. Chosŏn was forced to send ambassadors and appointed Hwang Shin and Pak Hongjang, whose diaries we shall turn to in the next chapter. Chosŏn was a small country, and it so happened that Oh Hŭimun knew Hwang Shin personally. Hwang was a student of the same master as Oh’s son Yungyŏm, and Hwang actually stopped briefly at Oh’s home on his way from the capital to the coast. As the whole country waited to see whether peace would indeed come, Oh added a further layer of personal concern for the ambassador’s safety, as Hwang ventured forth into the den of the enemy.

Reflections We shall return to Oh in a later chapter, but it is worth reflecting for a moment on what his diary tells us about these traumatic few years. Reading Oh’s account, perhaps the most striking aspect is the sheer number of people who died in Chosŏn in this short space of time. Though his evidence is anecdotal, and we cannot venture to extrapolate statistics, Oh’s record paints a truly catastrophic picture. The majority of the acquaintances Oh wrote about meeting day-to-day were dead by 1596 – and these were noble families (yangban), in the relatively wealthy southwest, which was one of the parts of the country which had escaped attack. The fate of his slave Makjŏng’s family – over forty relatives dead – points to how hard the lower classes were hit. When Oh bemoans the fate of the ‘battered remnant’ of the Chosŏn people, he was talking about those – like himself and most of his immediate family – who had managed to somehow survive. We see in Oh’s bleak and anxious assessments of the situation a sense of shared victimhood arising. Helpless as he was to control the way the war went, Oh Hŭimun was joined with the rest of the populace in simply waiting to see whether Heaven would have mercy on them enough to allow them to survive between what looked to Oh to be an ineffective Chosŏn government, an unreliable Ming army, and the unpredictable Japanese invaders. The only times Oh identified with the Chosŏn state as well as its people were when Chosŏn or its officials were humiliated by their Ming benefactors. Oh worried for Chosŏn’s continued existence as a ‘land of righteousness and propriety’ because he saw the Japanese invasion as posing an existential threat not only to the Chosŏn state but to something more intangible. When he wrote of Chosŏn’s possible fall to ‘barbarian customs’, Oh’s words not only mirrored those of the Calls to Arms circulated at this time, but consciously echoed writings from Song-dynasty China (960–1279), which were deeply influential in Chosŏn. The Song, too, had seen northern ‘barbarians’ as an existential threat, and Song scholars’ binary logic of what we could call the civilized (hua 華) and barbarian (yi 夷) were a fundamental principle in Oh and his contemporaries’ assessment of their country’s situation.72

Between a tiger and wolves 75 While helpless to change the situation, Oh was not ignorant of what was going on. In fact, another striking aspect of Oh’s diary is the abundance of the information he received. It is plain that he only wrote down a part of what he heard, but we see that a huge amount of news was shared by word-of-mouth. Through Oh’s recording of his thoughts, we snatch a glimpse of how the mood among the local populace shifted with each new rumour, and distrust of the Chinese rapidly replaced anticipation of their rescue of Chosŏn. Oh recorded so much that it is difficult to do his diary justice, but we shall return to look at his diary again in the final years of the war, after we have crossed to Japan and back once more.

Notes 1 The term swaemi (C. suowei) 瑣尾 originates in the Book of Odes (詩經 C. Shijing, K. Sigyŏng), and Oh Hŭimun probably had in mind Zhu Xi’s commentary explaining the term as a pitiful state of displacement. See the introductory notes in the first volume of Oh Hŭimun 吳希文, Swaemi rok 瑣尾錄, ed. Kuksa pyŏnch’an wiwŏnhoe 國史編纂委員會, 2 vols, Hanguk saryo ch’ongsŏ 韓國史料叢書 14 (Kwach’ŏn: Kuksa pyŏnch’an wiwŏnhoe 國史編纂委員會, 1962). The first character of the book title is sometimes written as 鎻, notably in the collection of the Jangseogak Royal Archives, which provides the digital rendition of the diary referenced here. (Jangseogak Royal Archives). 2 Oh Hŭimun 吳希文, ‘Swaemi rok’ 鎻尾錄 (Record of a Refugee) n.d., 庚子(1600) 5.5, Jangseogak Royal Archives. 3 Yangban status was hereditary, but only for three generations. 4 Oh Hŭimun, ‘Swaemi rok’, 己亥(1599) 7.6. 5 Oh Hŭimun had four sons and three daughters, until the youngest daughter died. By the end of the war he had nine grandsons and at least two granddaughters. 6 Oh Yun’gyŏm’s diary was even to share the same title as that attributed to 1596 Deputy Ambassador Pak Hongjang: Tong sa rok 東槎錄 (Record of Sailing to the East). Chŏng Manjo, ‘Oh Yun’gyŏm’ 吳允謙, Hanguk minjok munhwa taebaekkwasajŏn (The Academy of Korean Studies, 1997). 7 A longing to demonstrate his literary talent is hinted at in a dream Oh records, in which he meets the king and the king asks him directly about his learning (‘Swaemi rok’, n.d., 甲午 (1594) 03.12). Despite Oh’s determination to use Classical Chinese, the creeping influence of his native Korean can be seen in the Classical Chinese language of Swaemi rok. For example, Korean sentence structure (with the verb in final position) can very occasionally be observed, e.g. in the sentence ‘I ate thirty-eight pieces [of tofu] and Yŏnmyŏng forty-eight ate’ 「余食三十八串彦明四十串食已」 (Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 8.7). (Though impossible to render in translation, in this sentence the aspect-modifying morpheme has also been placed after the verb rather than before, following Korean rather than Chinese word-order.) Korean words are also written in Chinese, e.g. ŏmŏnim 어머님 as 母主. Yet it is significant that in ten years of writing Oh Hŭimun never once resorts to using the vernacular Korean Hangŭl script; maintaining ‘pure’ Classical Chinese was evidently important for him. 8 For example, Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 7.4. 9 Ibid. at 丙申 (1596) 3.29. 10 ‘Slaves’/nobi. Like many of the aristocratic yangban class, and the Chosŏn state itself, Oh Hŭimun owned nobi 奴婢: men and women whom, along with their children, he listed as assets in his end-of-year accounts. Oh’s nobi were incredibly important to his daily life, rendering innumerable services, and his sometimes symbiotic relationship

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11 12

13

14

15

16 17

18 19 20

Oh Hŭimun, refugee in his own land with them during the war is an interesting topic in itself. Nobi in Chosŏn sometimes had a degree of freedom akin to serfs (some of Oh’s nobi merely owed him rent), and so some scholars have argued that it is misleading to label them as ‘slaves’. This book chooses not to use nobi mainly for convenience (to avoid employing yet another specialist term, and for a phenomenon that is tangential to the book’s focus), but also on the basis that systems of slavery have differed substantially throughout human history. (Rejection of the term is frequently on the basis of differences with African slavery in North America.) While some scholars have pointed to noye 奴隸 (the compound used to translate ‘slave’ in the modern era) as being distinct from nobi, this is to compare modern and historical terminology. For Oh, ‘nobi’ was not a fixed compound: ‘no’ and ‘bi’ were the words he used to respectively describe the men and women he and others owned. For a discussion of slavery and Chosŏn, see Bok Rae Kim, ‘Nobi: A Korean System of Slavery’, in The Structure of Slavery in Indian Ocean Africa and Asia, ed. Gwyn Campbell (London: Frank Cass, 2004), 155–168. Ibid. at 乙未 (1595) 12.12–16, 4.27. The presence of both Chinese and Japanese armies leads to a huge increase in crossborder trade, which is reflected in the items that Oh Hŭimun records receiving. These include Chinese tea, fans, pins, and a Japanese fan. Ibid. at 乙未 (1595) 12.24–25, 丁酉 (1597) 7.2, 戊戌 (1598) 5.12. The academic study of Swaemi rok to date has mostly sought insights into the lives of yangban and slaves. For example, Miyajima Hiroshi 宮嶋博史, Yangban, trans. No Yŏnggu 노영구 (Seoul: Kang, 1996), e.g. 153; Kichung Kim, ‘Unheard Voices: The Lives of the Nobi in O Hwi-Mun’s Swaemirok’, Korean Studies 27 (2004): 108–137. The unexpected defeat of Ming-Chosŏn forces at Ulsan became the chief accusation brought against commander Yang Hao 楊鎬 as Ming factional politics spilled onto the Korean battlefield. See Li Guangtao 李光濤, ‘Ming ren yuan Han yu Yang Hao Yushan zhi yi’ 明人援韓与楊鎬蔚山之役 (The Ming’s Aid to Korea and Yang Hao’s Battle of Ulsan), Lishi yuyan yanjiu suo jikan 歷史語言研究所季刊 41, no. 4 (1969): 545–566. Oh’s descendants believed it to be the original, and the editors of the annotated edition concur. That it is indeed the original is supported by the extremely rough nature of the handwriting in the manuscript, which suggests no attempt to create a clean copy. Regarding the history of the manuscript and its current condition, see editors’ notes in Oh Hŭimun, Swaemi rok, 1962. In 1905 Chosŏn had formally become a protectorate of Japan; Chosŏn was annexed by Japan in 1910. Images and a digital transcription are available for most of the diary at: ‘Swaemi rok’ 鎻尾錄 (Record of a Refugee), n.d. Jangseogak Royal Archives http://yoksa.aks.ac. kr; (note the alternative character used in the diary title, and that the final volume is missing). The diary was first translated into modern Korean by Yi Minsu 利民樹 and privately published by an association of Oh’s descendants (海州吳氏楸灘公派宗中)) in 1990; that translation is now available as a free e-book, as Swaemi rok, 2 vols, Olje Classics 48 (Seoul: Olje, 2012). A new translation complete with index, maps, and annotated original text has been produced by Chinju National Museum: Swaemi rok 瑣尾錄, ed. Kim Migyŏng et al. 김미경, trans. Hwang Kyoŭn et al. 황교은, 8 vols (Seoul: Sahoe p’yŏngnon akadaemi 사회평론아카데미, 2018). Yi Ŭnyŏng, ‘Yi Bin’ 李贇, Hanguk yŏkdae inmul chonghap chŏngbo sisŭtaem (The Academy of Korean Studies). ‘Swaemi rok’, n.d., 壬辰 (1592) 4.16–17. Communications in Chosŏn partly relied on the official post and partly on sending messages with slaves or others travelling (JaHyun Kim Haboush, The Great East Asian War and the Birth of the Korean Nation, ed. William J. Haboush and Jisoo Kim (Columbia University Press, 2016), 54). We can see that this system continued during the war through Oh’s diary.

Between a tiger and wolves 77 21 Imch’ŏn was in Puyŏ county 扶餘縣, in what is now South Ch’ungchŏng Province 忠清南道. ‘Swaemi rok’, n.d., 壬辰 (1592) 10.13, 11.29–30. 22 Lack of faith in the state to protect the people is reflected in a song which people in K’yŏngsang province apparently created, suggesting that the castle they were being forced to build would not offer protection; rather, the people were the protection. Beatings and boiling alive were reportedly used to instil discipline, resulting in many deaths. 「… [民]心渙散 莫能禦之者 其道方伯[金睟] 自去年初 多驅南畝之民 築 不守之城 至於今春 尙未畢役 耕芸失時 怨苦盈路 至作歌謠曰 曲城高築 誰能守 敵 城非城也 百姓爲城 左道兵使[申硈] 欲立軍威 大杖烹水 到處嚴刑 斃於捶下 者甚多 人懷憤寃 皆思敵至 而一朝禍起 無一人奮義討賊 以雪君父之恥 逃竄林藪 欲保晷刻之命 非但嶺南一路如此 此道人心亦然 徵兵未至 先懷潰散之心 訛言煽 動 人無固志 預使家藏或埋或徙 以待賊至而走避 名在兵籍者 或在家而先走 或半 塗而還逃」 Ibid. at 壬辰 (1592) 序 6b. 23 Ibid. at 壬辰 (1592) 8.10. 24 Ibid. at 癸巳 (1593) 1.13. 25「再造三韓 實賴皇恩」 Ibid. at 壬辰 (1592) 7.30. 26 Ibid. at 癸巳 (1593) 1.2. 27 When pursuing the Japanese First Division (led by Konishi Yukinaga) as they retreated from Pyongyang, Chinese commander Li Rusong 李如松 led his cavalry straight into an ambush and a bad defeat at Pyŏkchegwan 碧蹄館. This was an important event, as it showed the Chinese that a swift rout of the Japanese from the peninsula was not possible once they retreated into mountainous terrain. Stung by this humiliation, Li Rusong refused to continue the offensive. 28「天將强欲和親 非但大損天威 我國不共之讎 何時得報」 Ibid. at 癸巳 (1593) 4.19. 29「… 并損中國之威」「非獨汝國 於中國何？」 Ibid. at 壬辰 (1592) ‘Yun Tusu sŏjang’ 尹斗壽書狀 (Report by Yun Tusu). 30「天朝九邊皆蠻夷 今日入寇則討之 明日款貢則許之 此無他 好生惡殺之心 此天 地之道也」 Ibid. 31 Ming confidence was not universal or consistent, however. In fact, the mid-war writings of Zhao Shizhen suggest that defeats against the Japanese profoundly shook confidence in Beijing. They played into people’s lack of faith in the ageing Ming military institution. Moreover, many people remembered previous victories of Japanese coastal raiders, and particularly the Japanese repulsions of the otherwise indomitable Mongols, and decided the Japanese were some sort of primal force which could not be crushed. (Zhao Shizhen 趙士禎, ‘Dong shi sheng yan’ 東事剩言 (Surplus Words on the Eastern Business), 5414, Kyujanggak, Seoul National University.) In Chapter 7, we see how final victory in the war allowed this dip in confidence to be comfortably forgotten. 32 Oh is most enervated over the need to avenge the desecration of the royal tombs, and assumes the whole country would feel the same way. ‘Swaemi rok’, n.d., 癸巳 (1593) 5.8. 33「天使至 亦護衛倭賊而去云 痛憤痛憤 欲死欲死」 Ibid. at 癸巳(1593) 4.24. 34 ‘Japanese (barbarian)’: Wae yi (C. Wo yi) 倭夷. The term yi 夷 by itself may not have carried so strong connotations as ‘barbarian’; it was a category used to describe nonChinese peoples, in opposition to hua (K. hwa) 華 (Chinese or civilized peoples). As already seen, Song Yingchang was also earlier quoted as having used the term in the compound manyi 蠻夷 to describe China’s neighbours, which probably had a stronger derogatory sense. For further discussion of the concepts of hwa-yi/hua-yi thinking in Korea and China at this time, see: Han Myŏnggi 韓明基, ‘Tong Asia kugjye kwan’gye-eso pon Imjin waeran’ 東아시아 國際關係에서 본 壬辰倭亂 (The Imjin War from the Perspective of East Asian International Relations), in Imjin waeran kwa Tong Asia segye ŭi pyŏndong 임진 왜란과 동아시아 세계의 변동, ed. Han-Il munhwa kyoryu kigŭm 한일 문화 교류 기금 and Tongbuga yŏksa chaedan 동북아 역사 재단 (Sŏul: Kyŏng’in munhwasa 景仁文化社, 2010), 175–200; Leo Kwok-yueh

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Shin, The Making of the Chinese State: Ethnicity and Expansion on the Ming Borderlands (Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006). 35 ‘Japanese dogs’ is an attempt to render Wonu 倭奴 (K. Waeno) in English. Wonu literally means ‘Wo slaves’ (where Wo is an ethnonym for the Japanese), but the term was common because Wonu was the name recorded for the first kingdom of the Japanese islands that appears in Chinese historical records, e.g. in the Han shu 漢書 (Book of Han), c.111 ce. 36「爾私相報復 肆行無忌若此 是倭夷效順 而朝鮮反叛亂矣 去歲 倭奴入寇之時 該 國君臣 胡不閉城效死 乃望風奔潰 致令宗社丘墟 主君遷播 向非天朝施恤小之仁 整救焚之旅 則朝鮮土地 委爲倭奴所有矣 曾不知感德戴恩 拱手聽令 而尙欲架復 仇之說 以戕殺零倭 覆敗之餘 吁亦可恥也」 Oh Hŭimun, ‘Swaemi rok’, n.d., 癸 巳 (1593) 4.24. 37「臣子死有不足言 而得罪上國 不可不計事 … 但我國通天之讎 不得報 而好返其 島 臣民之痛 其可勝道 然天威亦自此而太損矣 倭賊其無輕侮之心乎」 Ibid. 38 Ibid. at 癸巳 (1593) 5.9. 39 See Oh records of word-of mouth reports of Chinju, Ibid. at 癸巳 (1593) 7.06–10, and the official report he saw, Ibid. at 癸巳 (1593) 8.30. 40「諸將欲入擊 約束已定 辭於唐將 則劉摠兵綖 招入朴晋等終日結縛於庭 使不得 擊賊云 非但自身不與同力攻賊 亦至於我國諸將 不得任意擊賊 結縛致辱 若將助 賊 未知其意之所在」 Ibid. at 癸巳 (1593) 7.8. 41「且聞 唐兵下去湖南者 緣路民家 掠奪財物 無有紀極 如經賊變」 Ibid. 42 Ibid. at 甲午 (1594) 6.4. 43 Ibid. at 乙未 (1595) 9.11. 44 Ibid. at 癸巳 (1593) 閏 11.24. Oh had already seen the purported transcript of a conversation between Ming and Chosŏn officials in which the Ming official told his counterpart that there was ‘no need’ to tell King Sŏnjo 宣祖 of Chosŏn what Yukinaga’s conditions for peace were: Ibid. at 癸巳 (1593) 閏 11.7. 45 In Chosŏn (as in Japan), China was habitually referred to using the name of the Tang dynasty 618–907). The Tang empire had been a forceful presence in the region, fighting campaigns on the Korean peninsula, and deeply influencing culture and politics in Korea, Japan, and beyond. 46 Ibid. at 癸巳 (1593) 5.8. 47 Ibid. at 癸巳 (1593) 4. 48 Ibid. at 甲午 (1594) 3.1. 49 In Korean and Classical Chinese the category ‘brother’ is broader and here may mean a male cousin. Ibid. at 甲午 (1594) 6.2. 50 It is important to remember that there was great local variation: Oh visited Naju 羅州 around the same time as Chŏnju and observed that fields there were being worked. Ibid. at 癸巳 (1593) 7.14–15,甲午 (1594) 2.14, 4.3. 51 Ibid. at 甲午 (1594) 4.3. 52 Ibid. at 甲午 (1594) 4.27. 53 Ibid. at 甲午 (1594) 6.27. Fearing for their safety in an environment of increasing lawlessness, his son later moved his whole family to a different area to avoid bandits. Ibid. at 甲午 (1594) 12.2. 54「哀我東民」 Ibid. at 甲午 (1594) 4.27. 55 Oh noted how, of the three friends he spent most time with the previous winter, two had died and one had just managed to survive but had lost his wife. Ibid. at 甲午 (1594) 7.2. 56 Ibid. at 癸巳 (1593) 6.20. 57 Ibid. at 甲午 (1594) 5.5. 58 ‘Barbarian customs’ is a translation of chwa’im 左衽, which literally means ‘fastening one’s robe to the left’. It refers to foreign peoples considered less civilized, who reportedly tied their robes to the left, in contrast to the practice of tying robes to the right in the ‘civilized centre’. 「我國兵力 決不可敵 天若助順 必成此事 豈可以孑

Between a tiger and wolves 79 遺殘氓 更付於鋒鏑之下乎 又豈可以驅禮義之鄕 入左衽之俗乎 天道好還 必有悔 禍之時 惟此一事 猶可恃也 又聞天朝 令劉摠兵掇兵還來云 尤無可恃矣」 Ibid. at 甲午 (1594) 5.20. 59 Ibid. at 甲午 (1594) 10.22. 60 Ibid. at 癸巳 (1593) 7.14. 61「我國被擄男女」 Ibid. at 壬辰 (1592) 序 9b. 62 Note that Oh particularly recorded the fate of noblewomen – we will return to the question of class in the second chapter on his diary. The following passage includes the story cited and another distressing example (also about a noblewoman): 「聞倭賊 嶺南士女 擇其姸好者 滿載五船 先送其國 使之梳髮粉黛 若不然則輒怒 故皆畏死 强從云 實皆先淫之女耳 其餘不滿其意 則衆賊巡回淫之云 尤可痛慘 … 前日金山 之戰 有一女亦爲賊所攄 … 衆賊巡回作淫 不勝其苦 欲死不得 … 只腰結破裳而 無裙 軍士擧裳見之 則陰門盡浮 不能行步云 尤慘尤慘」 Ibid. at 壬辰 (1592) 序 11b–12a. 63「聞倭賊投降者 絡繹不絶 布列諸陣 上京者亦多 一路各官 少不如意 發怒致辱邑 宰 或發劒擊剌 我國人傷者頗多 … 可歎奈何奈何 來八九月間 將擧兵直向京城云 若然則孑遺之民 盡爲塡壑之鬼矣 吾無葬地矣 唐兵亦爲降倭所怯 畏避不抗云 况 我國之人乎 尤可歎也」 Ibid. at 甲午 (1594) 7.23. 64 Ibid. at 甲午 (1594) 8.21. 65 Ibid. at 甲午 (1594) 8.13. 66 Ibid. at 甲午 (1594) 7.26. 67 These food deliveries continued until Shin left his official post at the end of the year. Ibid. at 甲午 (1594) 12.14. 68 Ibid. at 乙未 (1595) 4.2. 69 Ibid. 70「一國之喜慶可言」 Ibid. at 乙未 (1595) 1.22, 4.2. 71 Ibid. at 丙申 (1596) 5.22, 6.4, 丁酉 (1597) 2.27, 4.29. 72 The phrase translated above as ‘barbarian customs’ (chwa’im 左衽, C. zuoren) was used in an identical way by people of the Song dynasty. Chosŏn scholars were deeply influenced by Song ideas, and the strong binary hua-yi (K. hwa-yi) opposition in particular. For worried Song patriots, the northern barbarians had presented an existential threat to Chinese civilization itself. For Oh and his contemporaries, what was at stake were not the culture and values they espoused per se but Chosŏn as a country that embodied those values. As an example of similar Song wording: ‘That all that has been built by the great sages of China would descend to barbarian customs, this is something that should pain all great and noble men.’ 「中國聖賢之所建置而悉淪於 左衽 此英雄豪傑之所當同以爲病也」 (‘Wushen zai shang Xiaozong huangdi shu’ 戊申再上孝宗皇帝書 in Chen Liang 陳亮, Longchuan ji 龍川集, Wenyuange Si ku quan shu dianzi ban 文淵閣四庫全書電子版, 集部四 (Digital Heritage 迪志文化出 版, n.d.).) Regarding the influence of Song thought and in particular the emphasis on the hwa-yi distinction in Chosŏn, see Han Myŏnggi 韓明基, ‘Imjin waeran chikjŏn Tong-Asia chŏngsae’ 임진왜란 직전 동아시아 정세 (East Asia Immediately before the Imjin War), Han-Il gwan’gae-sa yŏngu 한일관계사연구 43 (2012.12): 175–214.

References Chen Liang 陳亮. Longchuan ji 龍川集. Wenyuange Si ku quan shu dianzi ban 文淵閣四 庫全書電子版, 集部四. Digital Heritage 迪志文化出版. n.d. Chŏng Manjo. ‘Oh Yun’gyŏm’ 吳允謙. Hanguk minjok munhwa taebaekkwasajŏn. The Academy of Korean Studies. 1997. http://encykorea.aks.ac.kr. Haboush, JaHyun Kim. The Great East Asian War and the Birth of the Korean Nation. Edited by William J. Haboush and Jisoo Kim. Columbia University Press. 2016.

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Han Myŏnggi 韓明基. ‘Imjin waeran chikjŏn Tong-Asia chŏngsae’ 임진왜란 직전 동아 시아 정세 (East Asia Immediately before the Imjin War). Han-Il gwan’gae-sa yŏngu 43 (2012.12): 175–214. Han Myŏnggi. ‘Tong-Asia kugjye kwan’gye-eso pon Imjin waeran’ 東아시아 國際關 係에서 본 壬辰倭亂 (The Imjin War from the Perspective of East Asian International Relations). In Imjin waeran kwa Tong-Asia segye ŭi pyŏndong, edited by Han-Il munhwa kyoryu kigŭm and Tongbuk yŏksa chaedan, 103–145. Sŏul: Kyŏng’in munhwasa 景仁文化社. 2010. Kim, Bok Rae. ‘Nobi: A Korean System of Slavery’. In The Structure of Slavery in Indian Ocean Africa and Asia, edited by Gwyn Campbell, 155–168. London: Frank Cass. 2004. Kim, Kichung. ‘Unheard Voices: The Lives of the Nobi in O Hwi-Mun’s Swaemirok’. Korean Studies 27 (2004): 108–137. Li Guangtao 李光濤. ‘Ming ren yuan Han yu Yang Hao Yushan zhi yi’ 明人援韓与楊鎬 蔚山之役 (The Ming’s Aid to Korea and Yang Hao’s Battle of Ulsan). Lishi yuyan yanjiu suo jikan 歷史語言研究所季刊 41, no. 4 (1969): 545–566. Miyajima Hiroshi 宮嶋博史. Yangban. Translated by No Yŏnggu 노영구. Seoul: Kang. 1996. Oh Hŭimun 吳希文. Swaemi rok 瑣尾錄. Edited by Kuksa pyŏnch’an wiwŏnhoe 國史編 纂委員會. 2 vols. Hanguk saryo ch’ongsŏ 韓國史料叢書 14. Kwach’ŏn: Kuksa pyŏnch’an wiwŏnhoe 國史編纂委員會. 1962. Oh Hŭimun. ‘Swaemi rok’ 鎻尾錄 (Record of a Refugee), n.d. Jangseogak Royal Archives. http://yoksa.aks.ac.kr. Oh Hŭimun. Swaemi rok 瑣尾錄. Edited by Kim Migyŏng et al. 김미경. Translated by Hwang Kyoŭn et al. 황교은. 8 vols. Seoul: Sahoe p’yŏngnon akadaemi 사회평론아카 데미. 2018. Shin, Leo Kwok-yueh. The Making of the Chinese State: Ethnicity and Expansion on the Ming Borderlands. Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press. 2006. Yi Ŭnyŏng. ‘Yi Bin’ 李贇. Hanguk yŏkdae inmul chonghap chŏngbo sisŭtaem. The Academy of Korean Studies. Accessed 23 March 2019. http://people.aks.ac.kr. Zhao Shizhen 趙士禎. ‘Dong shi sheng yan’ 東事剩言 (Surplus Words on the Eastern Business). 5414. Kyujanggak. Seoul National University.

4

When peace broke

Hwang Shin, intrepid ambassador

The years 1595–1596 were the eye of the storm in the war between Japan, Korea, and China. An uneasy ceasefire held, as Ming China and Japan ostensibly moved towards a settlement to end the conflict. Many people at the time believed the war was finally coming to an end; still more hoped it was. With hindsight, we know that the fragile peace was to collapse and a second, even more wrathful invasion would commence the following year. But in 1596, everything was still uncertain, and all eyes turned to the diplomatic mission to Japan which promised a final resolution. In this chapter we follow the Chosŏn ambassadors on their journey from Korea into the unknown, and look at what their accounts tell us about that critical moment, as well as about Japan, Chosŏn, and the Ming more widely. The diaries of the two ambassadors have both survived; those of Hwang Shin, official Chosŏn ambassador (t’ongsinsa 通信使) to Japan in 1596, alongside the diary attributed to Deputy Ambassador Pak Hongjang. Both Hwang and Pak were relatively high ranking officials in the Chosŏn court, placing both men much nearer the political and cultural centre of their country than any of the other authors in this book. Hwang Shin, in particular, had received a very orthodox Neo-Confucian education, under the renowned teacher Sŏng Hon 成渾 (1535–1598), who had also been prominent at court. The diaries of the two men’s mission trace their journey from a familiar political and cultural space to a land utterly foreign to them. Recording their reactions each step of the way, the diaries offer an insight into how Hwang and Pak envisioned the border between Chosŏn and Japan, how they compared the foreign things and people they encountered to familiar Chosŏn and Chinese points of reference, and what they believed it meant for someone to belong to Chosŏn or Japan. Hwang and Pak’s accounts were then and remain now important pieces in the puzzle for anyone trying to understand the collapse of the peace process and Hideyoshi’s decision to order a second invasion.

Peace process 1593–1596 In Beijing, plans to expel the Japanese from Chosŏn by force in 1592 had given way to the pursuit of peace negotiations by 1593.1 Minister of War Shi Xing

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石星 received information that Hideyoshi was in fact seeking investiture as King of Japan and the right to send tribute missions (which represented a limited right to trade, as tribute missions doubled as trading parties). Shi saw an opportunity to bring to a swift end the extremely costly Eastern Campaign (as it was known in Beijing), and arranged for his informant and self-styled Japanese expert, Shen Weijing 沈惟敬, to travel to Chosŏn to begin negotiations with the Japanese in 1593. Konishi Yukinaga 小西行長 (1555–1600), the commander who had led the vanguard of the Japanese invasion, also began working for a negotiated end to the conflict soon after arriving in Chosŏn.2 As for Hideyoshi, only a few months before he had been detailing plans of moving the Japanese emperor (Goyōzei 後 陽成, 1571–1617) to the Chinese capital and installing himself as Kampaku (kanpaku 關白 – akin to prime minister) in the Chinese trading port of Ningbo. Yet, the reality of the battlefield seems to have forced him to abandon his grand ambition for conquest of China.3 At a meeting in Nagoya, Hideyoshi’s representatives relayed his proposed terms for peace, which show him seeking to establish amicable neighbourly relations with the Ming dynasty, and a suzerainvassal relationship with Chosŏn.4 An end to the war seemed to be within reach, but there were several key points which remained unresolved. Knowing this, the group of negotiators led by Shen Weijing on the Ming side and Yukinaga on the Japanese side continued to work together in secret to filter both the Ming and Hideyoshi’s demands so that they appeared acceptable to the other and, inch by inch, nudge both sides towards an agreement. Shen Weijing spent extended periods in Yukinaga’s encampments, and the group succeeded in shutting out from their negotiations other Ming officials – even the Ming ambassador – as well as Yukinaga’s rival Kato Kiyomasa 加藤清正 (1562–1611) and the Chosŏn court, which watched with consternation and apprehension.5 Though observers on all sides were deeply sceptical – and seemed to latterly be justified by the breakdown of the talks – Yukinaga and the others evidently believed they had a credible chance of success. Indeed, they quite literally gambled everything on it: Shen Weijing was ultimately put to death for his failure, and Yukinaga narrowly escaped Hideyoshi’s wrath. The culmination of the negotiators’ plan was an official mission from the Ming dynasty to invest Hideyoshi as King of Japan. One of the Ming conditions for this mission had been the withdrawal of Japanese forces from the peninsula, though even by 1596 this still had not happened. This was one of the conditions that had been ‘filtered’, and Shen Weijing does not appear to have put this request to Hideyoshi until later – as we shall see. Shen and Yukinaga evidently believed that Hideyoshi would agree to order a withdrawal if representatives of Chosŏn came to pay their respects to him.6 This final requirement is what Keitetsu Genso 景轍玄蘇 (1537–1611), a Japanese monk who had been one of the intermediaries liaising with Chosŏn since the build up to the war, relayed to Chosŏn official Hwang Shin. Genso explained the mission as being to ‘thank’ Hideyoshi for his mercy in releasing King Sŏnjo’s two sons, who had been taken hostage at the beginning of the war.7 Leaving aside the idea of expressing

When peace broke 83 gratitude to their invader for his mercy, the Chosŏn court had no desire to resume diplomatic relations with Japan before extracting so much as an apology from the country they now viewed as their mortal adversary.8 Hwang Shin turned first to Ming ambassador Yang Fangheng 楊方亨 for guidance, but Yang was concerned for his own safety and could not care less whether Chosŏn sent an emissary.9 Shen Weijing, on the other hand, assured Hwang all would be well, and that he would ensure the Chosŏn envoys were not put in any awkward situations. Ultimately, as Genso pointed out (probably not without some satisfaction), Chosŏn had no choice but to comply, given that it was too militarily weak to eject the Japanese without help.10 The Chosŏn court thus reluctantly appointed Hwang Shin as Chief Ambassador and Pak Hongjang as Deputy Ambassador. They were to lead a company of civilian and military officials, including Chinese and Japanese interpreters, servants, and slaves, numbering about 300 in all. At the beginning of the eighth month of 1596, the company set sail from Pusan, heading for the port of Sakai 堺, near Osaka and the capital Kyoto, where Hideyoshi was waiting (see Map 4.1). Two diaries recording this journey have survived, and both begin shortly before the company set sail and end when they finally left the Japanese camp at Pusan to return to the Chosŏn court.

Two ambassadors, two diaries The diary of Hwang Shin Hwang Shin was famed for his scholarly talents: he was a changwŏn 狀元, meaning he had come first in the highest-level civil service examinations (in 1588). In 1591 his career suffered a temporary setback when he was demoted after becoming embroiled in factional politics, but he returned to office in 1592, employed to accompany the overall commander of Ming forces, Song Yingchang 宋應昌 (1536–1606).11 Before being made ambassador in 1596, Hwang had spent many months accompanying Shen Weijing in the Japanese encampments, though for at least part of this time he was isolated and kept under guard, lest he spy on the camp or eavesdrop on Shen and Yukinaga’s secret meetings.12 The diary that describes Hwang’s experiences on his voyage is known as Ilbon wanghwan ilgi 日本往還日記 (Diary of a Journey to Japan and Back). There are two known surviving copies of Ilbon wanghwan ilgi, both of which are manuscripts.13 Unlike the diary of the Deputy Ambassador, the text appears to be written by Hwang Shin himself.14 Given the fame Hwang enjoyed for his literary talents, it would have been odd if he had let someone else write on his behalf. Hwang’s writing was no idle hobby, but had immediate political purpose. Hwang faced political attack almost as soon as he returned to court. His enemies objected to the king rewarding him, when in their eyes he had failed in his mission. One of the repeated indictments against him read as follows: ‘The old villain [i.e. Hideyoshi] is fierce and wily, and repeatedly spoke rashly. [Hwang]

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Hwang Shin, intrepid ambassador

Map 4.1 Map showing the route taken by the Chosŏn ambassadors Hwang Shin and Pak Hongjang, who, in August 1596, sailed from Pusan to Sakai, in order to finalize peace terms with Hideyoshi in the nearby Japanese capital, Kyoto.

Shin did not manage to speak once to reprimand him, only listening to his threats and returning cowed.’15 These attacks were indicative of the kind of factional fighting that had cost Hwang his office just a few years earlier, and the threat to his promising career may have felt real.16 In the diary, Hwang is not able to avoid the fact that he did not have a single chance to speak or write to Hideyoshi or indeed play any active role in the

When peace broke 85 unfolding events. Instead, the diarist employs set-piece dialogues, speeches, and poetics to counter possible criticisms and present Hwang in a most attractive light. The Chief Ambassador of Ilbon wanghwan ilgi is fearless in the face of danger, dutiful to the point of a fault, and respected as courageous even by his enemies. Apart from recording the sequence of events and the culture and society of Japan, this positive self-portrayal is undoubtedly the primary function of the diary. This of course means we must read Hwang’s diary with a critical eye, but provided we appreciate its limitations, Ilbon wanghwan ilgi is a valuable historical source for the breakdown of the 1596 peace negotiations. The diary of Pak Hongjang As a second diary of the same journey, Tong sa rok 東槎錄 (Record of an Eastern Voyage), offers a rare chance to compare and contrast with the account of events given in Ilbon wanghwan ilgi. Tong sa rok ostensibly records the journey of Pak Hongjang, but other than whom he met and where he slept, it gives no personal information about the Deputy Ambassador.17 It therefore diverges considerably from the self-promoting Ilbon wanghwan ilgi in its purpose of composition. There is only one known extant copy of Tong sa rok (see Figure 4.1), which is included with other works connected to Pak, collected under the title Kwan’gam nok 觀感錄 (Record of That Seen and Sensed), held in the Nagoya Castle Museum (by the site of the original castle from where Hideyoshi launched the 1592 invasion).18 A comment by Pak’s relative included in this copy of the diary perfectly sums up how the diary contrasts with that of Hwang Shin: The preceding Tong sa rok is the diary of my great uncle, the envoy, from the time he went to sea. Now it is not known who the author is, but judging from the authorial voice, it must have been the clerk in charge of records under His Excellency’s command. As far as clear or clouded skies, wind or rain, distances and accommodation are concerned, they are recorded in no little detail. But that it fails to record His Excellency’s words and expressions as he was negotiating and planning, and how he awed those in the same boat and of a different race, is most lamentable.19 Judging by the generational difference, this commentator was probably writing in the seventeenth century. He observes the feature that most distinguishes Tong sa rok from Ilbon wanghwan ilgi: it records detail, but has little or nothing to say about the greatness of Deputy Ambassador Pak. Tong sa rok is often more detailed in describing the environment. For example, both accounts describe the island of Tsushima 對馬 as in a very poor state, but Tong sa rok goes into more depth, explaining the economic reasons behind this, and further describing the administrative districts, lifestyles of the inhabitants, and so on.20 Yet the ambassadors Hwang and Pak are only mentioned in terms of where they stayed or

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Hwang Shin, intrepid ambassador

Figure 4.1 The first page of Tong sa rok 東槎錄, associated with Pak Hongjang, held in Nagoya Castle Museum Library, Saga. Source: Photograph: author, 2012.

who they met; there are no dialogues, heroics, or men of charisma. In this way, Tong sa rok acts as the perfect foil for Hwang’s Ilbon wanghwan ilgi. For example, Tong sa rok’s more straightforward style reveals the extent to which Hwang was editing for the purposes of ‘image management’ when Hwang’s rigid ‘going to pay respect’ to a Chinese official is revealed in Tong sa rok to have been an evening spent drinking and making merry together (all merrymaking is self-censored from Hwang’s account).21 It is also revealing that the type of personality of which Pak’s descendant laments the absence, is precisely that embellished in Hwang Shin’s diary: words and actions that awe friends and foes alike.

When peace broke 87

Journey to Japan Hwang Shin’s self-promotion begins immediately after the ambassadors set sail at the beginning of the eighth month of 1596, setting the tone for his whole account of the mission. In waters between Tsushima and Ikinoshima 壹岐島, the ships were caught in a violent storm. According to Ilbon wanghwan ilgi, under the force of the wind the ropes on the sails were ready to break and the ship leaned almost to the point of capsizing. The ship leapt and fell like a galloping horse. All aboard were terrified. All, that is, except Chief Ambassador Hwang. In the midst of spray falling on the deck ‘like rain’, Hwang Shin composed an oath to the sea: a prayer to the spirit of the sea in a style of Classical Chinese that makes use of parallel couplets. Soon after he had finished it and tossed it into the water the wind is reported to have subsided. The text of the oath read as follows: I, Ambassador of Chosŏn, dare to make a declaration to the Spirit of the Eastern Sea: In the dog and tiger-filled thickets, I served two years; above the sea dragon’s lair I now sail in the eighth month’s raft. That I am willing to give my life in duty, I bow and pledge. For I have been born into times of turmoil, and as one sworn to the service of the state, trials and tribulations, many have I tasted. Yet be it in the provinces or the barbarian lands, only the loyal and sincere are fit to serve. Sure in my unfailing loyalty, I can vow by the heavens without shame. While carrying out my four-thousand-mile mission, I have not once dared wince from hardship; my thirty years of selfcultivation, may they serve me this day. [For] what are the unsettled affairs of the king are also the rightful duty of his servant. Spreading the sails I make for the distant Land of the Sun. If it would secure the royal house and benefit the country, then I will not refuse even death; if I were to disgrace the mission entrusted me and fall into dishonour, then of what good would be life? May his Divine Holiness look down and bear witness to my sincerity; and may these words be not false. Heaven is all knowing; should I be lax in but one thought, let the spirits strike me down. All this I submit in reverence.22 It is perhaps not surprising that while relating this dramatic event the diary fails to mention that Hwang in fact suffered badly from seasickness – it is questionable whether he was upright let alone composing poetic couplets.23 Hwang’s grand pronouncement, sworn to Heaven and proved authentic by the weather’s response, is a statement of both Hwang’s courage and sense of duty. Within the diary, it sets the scene for Hwang to face the dangers of the mission; beyond the diary, it declares him fit for high office. The difference in style between Ilbon wanghwan ilgi and Tong sa rok is vividly demonstrated by the matter-of-fact entry of the latter for the same day’s voyage: ‘Set sail at dawn. Arrived at Ikinoshima at dusk.’24

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Hwang’s composition was not just a literary flourish contained within the diary: the text of ‘Oath to the Sea’, along with the dramatic story of its acceptance by the spirits of the sea, spread quickly around Chosŏn on his return and caused a stir.25 Later histories also continued to quote it.26 This was a selfconfident declaration from a literary and political rising star.

Osaka and Hideyoshi’s wrath Despite sailing all the way to the adjacent port of Sakai, Hwang and Pak never actually reached Osaka, and never managed to meet the infamous Hideyoshi, who had ensconced himself there. On the 18th day of the intercalary eighth month, they sailed into the harbour at Sakai (which today is situated within the Osaka area). It was a sunny day, and a fanfare played as the two Ming ambassadors and a Japanese delegation led by Yukinaga came to meet the ships. The pomp and ceremony was not for the Chosŏn ambassadors, but for the Ming imperial edict which they had been escorting.27 Hwang Shin describes in detail how, after he and Pak Hongjang had performed the appropriate ritual bowing to the two Ming ambassadors at Yang Fangheng’s accommodation, they insisted on following Shen Weijing to his accommodation to again bow to him there, despite Shen saying this was unnecessary. This show of conscientious propriety is typical of Hwang’s account, and sits in contrast with Pak’s diary, which omits the later visit to Shen’s accommodation – leaving us to doubt whether it ever took place.28 The author of Tong sa rok is more interested in describing his environment; he was clearly impressed by what he saw on arriving in Sakai: Tall buildings and planked houses extend wall-to-wall for more than ten ri [2.5 miles], totalling almost ten thousand. Due to the previous earthquake, some among them were damaged and have not been repaired. Apparently countless people and animals died. In the market the goods shine and glitter, catching the eye; it cannot be known how many millions of different kinds there are.29 The diarist here does not hide his wonder at the spectacle of flourishing trade they encounter on arrival in Japan. It was due to the devastating earthquake shortly beforehand that Fushimi 伏 見 Castle, where Hideyoshi had planned to receive the ambassadors, could no longer be used. This was a devastating earthquake with its epicentre very near the castle, and news of it even reached people in Chosŏn.30 Nevertheless, soon after their arrival they heard that Hideyoshi felt this need not delay his meeting with them: Yukinaga and the others returned from the capital [Kyoto] and reported: ‘The Kampaku [Hideyoshi] is ecstatic to hear that the ambassadors have arrived. He will not wait for another hall to be built, and will meet with the

When peace broke 89 Celestial Ambassadors and the [Chosŏn] ambassadors on the 2nd day of the ninth month.31 While we may suppose that some of Hideyoshi’s exuberance was the exaggeration of the messengers, the proposed meeting is indeed arranged for only a week later, and news came of Hideyoshi having returned to Osaka within just a few days.32 Yet, according to Ilbon wanghwan ilgi, the very next day after he arrived in Osaka (29th), his attitude towards Chosŏn and its officials was being reported in very different terms: [Yanagawa] Shigenobu summoned Pak Taegŭn [the interpreter] and told him: ‘just now Yukinaga, [Terazawa Hirotaka], and the others returned from Hideyoshi’s quarters saying that the Kampaku had said: ‘In the beginning I wanted passage to China and Chosŏn would not act as an intermediary. Then after it had come to armed conflict, Shen [Weijing] wanted to reconcile the two countries but Chosŏn remonstrated to the Ming in the strongest terms that it must not be allowed. Chosŏn consistently spoke against Shen [Weijing], thinking him to be in league with Japan. The departure of Celestial Ambassador Li [Zongcheng] also goes back to Chosŏn’s scaremongering. Once the ambassadors had crossed the sea, Chosŏn was unwilling to send officials with them, taking their time and only now arriving. Furthermore they did not send a prince. In every matter they have slighted me severely. I cannot allow an audience to the envoys who have come. I will first meet with the Celestial Ambassadors, and keep the Chosŏn ambassadors here. I will only grant them an audience after writing to the Ministry of War and investigating their reasons for being late.”33 It is not clear whether Hideyoshi changed his mind over the intervening days, or whether the Chosŏn ambassadors’ hosts had simply withheld news of Hideyoshi’s displeasure until this point.34 We must be highly cautious in reading the reported statements of Yukinaga and the group around him, as we know that their diplomatic efforts had always been built on filtering and manipulation of messages. Some of the reasoning they relay here may well be their own. Yet, the core theme here of Hideyoshi feeling he had not been sufficiently respected is credible, fitting with what we know of Hideyoshi and the course of events. The background to this cool reception for the Chosŏn ambassadors was that Hideyoshi had long believed Chosŏn to be a vassal of Japan.35 The Sō 宗 house of Tsushima and others had conspired to maintain a pretence of Chosŏn submission, in an attempt to avoid disruption of the trade with Chosŏn upon which Tsushima’s economy depended. From 1592, Chosŏn had of course attempted to resist the Japanese army as it headed for China, making the Chosŏn king a rebellious vassal in Hideyoshi’s eyes. Hideyoshi was a man who had risen to dominance out of the Japanese civil war by effectively utilizing threat and reward to win vows of allegiance from his would-be rivals; disobedience from vassals was not something he could afford to countenance, nor was he so inclined.36

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Therefore, while Hideyoshi appears to have been eager for recognition from the Ming emperor as something which bolstered his prestige, Chosŏn’s continued ‘insubordination’ incensed him.37 Yanagawa Shigenobu 柳川調信 (d. 1605), the messenger cited above, was part of the group around Yukinaga and belonged to the house of Sō of Tsushima, which so relied on trade with Chosŏn. It was in this group’s interests to placate Hideyoshi regarding Chosŏn and complete the peace settlement. They had evidently believed it was possible to satisfy him with an emissary, but Hideyoshi seems to have become more and more angry at Chosŏn’s apparently disrespectful behaviour.38 This caused a problem, as from the Ming-Chosŏn standpoint, securing the withdrawal of Japanese troops from Chosŏn had originally been both the goal and prerequisite of Hideyoshi’s investiture; as Shigenobu put it, ‘the Celestial Court investing the Kampaku is not for the Kampaku’s sake, but solely to save Chosŏn’.39 While angry with Chosŏn, Hideyoshi was unlikely to agree to withdraw and ‘let them off’ without punishment, yet Ming ambassadors Yang and Shen could not afford to leave without securing a withdrawal. The final explosion of this tense situation is recorded in Hwang’s diary as coming several days after Hideyoshi accepted investiture as ‘King of Japan’ from the Ming ambassadors. Only after much worrying and urging on the parts of Yukinaga’s group and the Chosŏn ambassadors did Shen Weijing finally broach withdrawal of Japanese forces from Chosŏn with Hideyoshi. Fearing a face to face encounter, Shen wrote a letter, which Yukinaga and others took to him in Osaka on the 6th day of the ninth month.40 According to this account, it was Hideyoshi’s fury on receiving this letter that ended official negotiations, and doomed the region to another year of bloody warfare. Hwang and Pak received the ominous news in the middle of the night, relayed once more by Shigenobu.41 The words Hideyoshi is quoted as having said in his burst of fury at this time, through Hwang’s reporting, came to be known far and wide in both Chosŏn and Ming China. Hwang quotes Shigenobu as having said: The Kampaku became furious, saying: ‘As for the Celestial Court, given that it has already sent envoys to invest [me], I tolerate it for the time being. Yet Chosŏn is as disrespectful as this! There can be no peace now. How can we discuss withdrawal just when I am in a mind to fight? The Celestial Ambassadors also need not tarry long. Have them set sail tomorrow. You can also order the Chosŏn ambassadors to leave. Meanwhile I will start mobilizing forces to go to Chosŏn this winter.’ He has also apparently summoned Kiyomasa to discuss plans. If Kiyomasa has his way, then things will go badly. Yukinaga and all of us will be dead in no time.42 The news that Hideyoshi would launch another invasion confirmed the worst fears of the Chosŏn ambassadors, and seems to have devastated Shigenobu and the other Japanese working for peace, with Yukinaga reportedly considering suicide upon seeing four years of tireless effort crumble before his eyes.43

When peace broke 91 Yukinaga probably also feared for his life: the Portuguese observer Luís Fróis (1532–1597) wrote that Hideyoshi was positively apoplectic with rage.44 With Hideyoshi demanding the immediate departure of both Ming and Chosŏn ambassadors, both groups had no choice but to make preparations for a swift return home. Not delivering the letter from King Sŏnjo that was entrusted to him meant Hwang could be accused of failing in his mission.45 In Ilbon wanghwan ilgi we therefore find dialogues with both Yang and Shen, where the two Chosŏn ambassadors explain their predicament and express their wish to die, only to have their position comprehensively defended by the Chinese officials.46

Return from Japan Hwang and Pak would have set off from Sakai with fearful and heavy hearts. Not only had they failed in their mission, but another devastating invasion of their country loomed. On top of this, Shen Weijing and their Japanese escort attempted to prevent them from sending word of what had happened ahead to Chosŏn. The Ming ambassadors had immediately dashed off a report claiming a kowtowing Hideyoshi had gratefully accepted his investiture, and concealing his subsequent wrath.47 While they would have been anxious, waiting for an opportunity to send their urgent report, the return journey was a chance for the two diarists to observe the different places and people which they were once again passing. In both diaries there are fascinating glimpses of their impressions. Attitudes towards Koreans in Japan When the Chosŏn ships were due to depart on the 9th day of the ninth month, Hwang records how many of the Koreans who had been captured and taken to the islands as slaves crowded around the vessels, watching their last hope of return disappear: Earlier, when the ambassadors first arrived at Sakai harbour, men and women of our country who had been abducted all rushed to come and see them. […] All the Japanese generals also regularly sent boys they had abducted to see the ambassadors, always saying that once the negotiations were completed, they could go back with the ambassadors. When they heard that the ambassadors were readying to depart, some gave money for the journey and sent [the boys]; gradually they came to the ambassadors’ lodgings, awaiting boarding of the ships. At this point, each of the Wae masters heard that the peace process had failed, and that there would be fighting again. They then went back on their word, and all those that had come to the lodgings were recalled. Only twenty or so men and women, including the daughter of Kim Yŏngch’ŏn, came together on the luggage ship.

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Hwang Shin, intrepid ambassador When the ambassadors were boarding the ships, countless men and women of our country followed howling and weeping. There was not a dry eye among the whole company. The ships did not depart, and [we] slept on board.48

Tong sa rok gives only a minimalist account of the company’s movements for this period, having given more detail on meetings with Koreans during the outward journey. When the party arrived at Nagoya, Tong sa rok records that they met abducted Koreans in person: Men and women who had been forcibly taken, longing for home, came from near and far in their hundreds and thousands. But the villains kept them imprisoned without release. Some of them would hear my voice and come crying; it was so terrible one could not meet eyes with them. Those that had been taken captive as children were fluent in the barbarian tongue, and could not understand our language. It is truly tragic.49 Both diarists are plainly moved by the plight of those forced into slavery in an unknown land. It is interesting that the Tong sa rok diarist seems to have found the cruelty of these Koreans being kept far from their homeland more upsetting than their being kept in slavery – perhaps this is because slavery was an integral part of the Chosŏn social system. His sympathy also seems to be for all the people from Chosŏn: neither diarist differentiates between those of noble and lowly birth, as would be common in a domestic context.50 The Tong sa rok diarist evidently feels it is particularly tragic that children born in Chosŏn should not understand ‘our language’, but grow up speaking a foreign tongue. As a footnote to these sad scenes, a few days later one of the interpreters with the embassy is recorded as paying for the release of a slave. This was not a commoner, however, but the son of a minor official.51 Later, when they returned and Hwang Shin was called for an interview with King Sŏnjo, the king specifically asked about ‘our people’ (我民) in Japan, to which Hwang responded disparagingly that they all speak Japanese and have forgotten Chosŏn.52 This obvious exaggeration (it had been only four years since the start of the war and the abductions) seems to indicate he somehow blamed them for their ‘betrayal’ of their country, but again highlights the perceived importance of language as symbolic of Korean identity. In his diary, Hwang records how he in fact agreed to bring a captured boy back with him to Chosŏn. This boy had been kept in the house of Terazawa Hirotaka 寺澤廣高 (1563–1633), but was so homesick that Hirotaka took pity on him and asked that Hwang search for his family. He added that if the boy’s family had not survived, then he would be very grateful if Hwang could return the boy to him, so that he would not be left homeless.53 By recording this incident Hwang presents a far more complex image of the Japanese than most writings at the time. Here was one of the Japanese commanders – who were commonly vilified as savage and cunning beasts – showing compassion and

When peace broke 93 generosity of heart. Hwang had spent several months in close quarters with Japanese people who were working to save Chosŏn from further disaster (even if these were the same men who had been in the vanguard of the invasion). It is therefore not surprising that the perspective Hwang shares with his fellow countrymen is very different from the image of violent and unpredictable savages we see in the writing of Oh Hŭimun, who never actually met a Japanese person.

Japan and the Japanese The final part of Ilbon wanghwan ilgi is actually dedicated to explaining the foreign land of Japan and its people to the reader, so makes particularly interesting reading. It begins as follows: To speak as a whole, the country of the Wae is slightly greater in area than our country, but it lacks the solidity of famous mountains or great rivers. Its scenery and produce are all inferior to our country. There is a mountain known as Fuji in the east of the country, which is most acclaimed as a great mountain, but otherwise there is no scenery or outstanding beauty worthy of mention.54 This uncomplimentary appraisal sets the tone for much of Hwang’s account; for example, his assessment of Japan’s administration: They have roughly imitated the Tang system but in reality officials are not in charge of matters connected to their post. For example, Shigenobu claims to be Deputy of the Secretariat (what is known as the Librarian), but he is illiterate. [Katō] Kiyomasa claims to be Master of Accounts, but has never dealt with money or grain. It seems they merely use empty titles. The people consist of soldiers, farmers, artisans, merchants, and monks, but only monks and those of noble families can read. As for the others, even if they are military or civilian officials, they cannot recognize a single character.55 In claiming that ‘they cannot recognize a single character’ Hwang is equating literacy with ability to read Classical Chinese: earlier diary entries show Shigenobu and others engaging in written correspondence, but presumably in Japanese. In judging the Japanese by their ability in Classical Chinese, or lack thereof, Hwang was joining with all other contemporary Chinese and Korean observers who wrote on the subject; Kang Hang 姜沆 (1567–1618) and Xu Yihou 許儀後, for example, enjoyed ridiculing the Japanese on this point.56 Hwang Shin was of course no less than the changwŏn – the man who had come out top of a civil service examination system that linked knowledge of the Chinese classics to ability in government. It is hardly surprising that he finds it strange that men of official rank in Japan have no such education. Still, whether it be Hwang or Xu Yihou, we see that for educated Chinese and Korean

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observers this perceived lack of cultural knowledge formed an important part of their impression of the Japanese. Hwang Shin is not critical of everything Japanese, however. Continuing on to social classes, he writes: Soldiers receive a salary from the government. Merchants are the most wealthy, but as their profits are twice that of others, their tax is slightly higher. State expenses both great and small are all put upon the merchants. In the case of farmers, half of the produce of their fields is collected, but there are no other taxes or corvée. For transport and construction work a wage is given, so the burden does not reach the common people.57 Not only is there no criticism, but in pointing out how the common people do not suffer, Hwang is actually explaining the advantages of the Japanese tax system, even discussing it as a potential model. It just so happens that Hwang was in favour of reducing corvée labour in Chosŏn, so we can suppose he was using this Japanese model to support that agenda.58 Yet this in itself is surprising: given the beyond-the-pale position normally accorded Japan in world political, moral, and cultural hierarchy by Chinese and Korean writers at this time, Hwang Shin’s use of the Japanese system as a model is unexpected. There were other areas of Japanese culture that the diarists reviewed positively. Both authors were impressed by the aesthetic of ‘cleanliness and simplicity’ which they encountered. For the author of Tong sa rok, this extended to the food they were served when they arrived in Tsushima. He describes it saying, ‘as refined and immaculate as is possible’.59 High praise indeed. Hwang Shin is similarly taken aback by the decorations used at banquets: They paint gold and silver over the fish, meat, noodles, and rice. They cut coloured material to make flowers, or they carve wood and add coloured material to make the shapes of plants and flowers, and place them around the banquet. These are in fact extremely intricate and lifelike; from four or five paces away it is not possible to distinguish whether they are real or artificial.60 Tong sa rok also has very high praise for the aesthetics of a newly-built building in which they are at one point accommodated.61 The author seems to imply that the size and vibrancy of the market cities they see (particularly Sakai) surpass anything he had seen elsewhere.62 One thing that neither diarist could look on without distaste was what they deemed a lack of proper behaviour (ye 禮) connected with the teachings of Confucius and other sages (yu 儒). They were particularly critical of Japanese custom in the areas of proper hierarchy – to be maintained in forms of address and rituals (such as bowing) – and propriety in sexual relations. The author of Tong sa rok, in his overview of Tsushima, stated: ‘Buddhist Law is held in esteem, and Confucian teachings are not popular; names and roles are in disarray.’63 The otherwise consistently neutral authorial tone of Ilbon wanghwan

When peace broke 95 ilgi is broken only once, when explaining Japanese intersex relations. After describing the surprisingly overt nature of Japanese prostitution, where the prostitutes ‘know no shame’, he remarks: As for marriage, there is no taboo for siblings. If father and son lie with the same prostitute, no one will speak against them. Verily are they beasts not men.64 Calling the Japanese ‘beasts’ (keumsu 禽獸) was not an arbitrary insult: it was a culturally-loaded term very common in contemporary writing. In the Calls to Arms circulated by volunteer commanders after the 1592 invasion, ‘beasts’ is used to describe the lower state of civilization to which Chosŏn risked falling if overrun by the Japanese.65 The Chosŏn king Sŏnjo also used ‘beasts’ to describe the lower level of existence to which his kingdom risked being damned.66 In late sixteenth-century Chosŏn, it was the knowledge and maintenance of proper relationships, such as father-son (puja 父子) and lord-vassal (kunshin 君臣), that separated men from beasts. This way of thinking, based in the tradition now known as Neo-Confucianism, had gained a dominant position in Chosŏn society and politics following the rise of the group referred to as the Sarim 士林 (Forest of Scholars) faction, particularly after the accession of King Sŏnjo (1567). Sarim Neo-Confucianism especially emphasized the sharp dichotomies between the moral and immoral, civilized and barbarian.67 These standards were readily applied in official Chosŏn writings on Japan. They were also widely propagated through children’s educational materials, such as Tong mong sŏn sŭp 童蒙先習 (Beginning Practice for Children).68 The concept that men and beasts were separated by morality was one of the fundamental ideas taught in another Classical Chinese primer for children, Sohak 小學 (Lesser Learning), which Hwang Shin himself promoted.69 It is against this ideological background that the lessregulated relations of the Japanese were so difficult to accept for Hwang Shin. The author of Tong sa rok too, invokes similar connections when he refers to the Japanese as ‘stained teeth’ (染齒): this was a practice of the Japanese but in historical Chinese writing was also associated with uncivilized savage tribes.70 Given that the ideological framework in which the Chosŏn ambassadors had been educated drew such sharp distinctions, so readily demoting the Japanese to the level of beasts, it is surprising to find both diarists ready to praise aspects of Japanese food, craftsmanship, and even government. It seems that actual contact with the Japanese stripped away some of the habitual labelling that those who wrote without direct experience were more prone to use. Through the medium of the diaries, particularly Hwang Shin’s diary, this slightly more nuanced view of the Japanese also reached a wider audience back in Chosŏn. The first piece of writing by Hwang to be received in Chosŏn was an urgent report he sent to the king. In it he relayed Hideyoshi’s furious rejection of Shen Weijing’s demand and that another attack was imminent. Hwang’s report caused panic in the capital, which rapidly spread throughout the country.71 As ordinary people desperately sought refuge, the armies of Japan, Chosŏn, and the Ming all prepared for war.

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Conclusions Even if Hwang Shin portrayed himself as fearless in the face of danger, the journey of these two Chosŏn ambassadors was probably one of trepidation. They were venturing right into the lion’s den, from the perspective of those back in Chosŏn. Even apart from being unsure what Hideyoshi would decide to do next, everything Hwang, Pak, and their company observed on their way was new and strange. As talented scholar and product of the civil-service machine, Hwang’s education could not have been more orthodox. His diary was an attempt to translate this foreign experience into language and ideas familiar to his Chosŏn contemporaries: those of their shared Classical Chinese education and day-to-day experience of Chosŏn. He was also replacing a largely unknown, unpredictable, and aggressive foe with a land and people of defined territory, customs, food – and limits. These diaries were one part in the process of mutual learning that took place during the war, in which a few people who had direct experience of another country translated that experience for the domestic audience – an audience that otherwise knew very little about foreign countries or peoples beyond simple caricatures. Shen Weijing, Konishi Yukinaga, and the group around them were the latest generation in a long line of intermediaries between Japan and Korea and China who had sought to use the predominating mutual ignorance between the countries to maintain peace and thus advance their own trade interests. The two diaries reveal the extent to which the ambassadors’ experience and even knowledge of Japan was closely managed by this group even when in Japan: Hwang and Pak depended entirely on Shigenobu and their other guides relaying the latest news to them. For this reason, their account of these critical few days in Osaka must be considered alongside the other sources available. Recent Japanese scholarship on Hideyoshi’s foreign policy, and the breakdown of negotiations in particular, suggest that the outline sequence of events and critically, Hideyoshi’s main motivation for ordering another invasion, were indeed most probably as represented in the ambassadors’ diaries – which become important corroborating evidence.72 This is quite a different version of events from that reproduced in English-language scholarship on the war up until this point, in which Hideyoshi instead became enraged when he discovered he was to be subordinate to China (which he had earlier planned to conquer).73 We will trace how this disparity may have arisen in Chapter 7, where we consider what happened to the new knowledge produced on the frontline during the war once the war had ended. The brief excerpts in this chapter should serve to demonstrate that the two diaries are not only an important source for studying the breakdown of negotiations, but also for considering how the authors and their contemporaries thought about Korean and Japanese identities. The anecdotes about people born in Chosŏn but taken to Japan are particularly revealing about their ideas of belonging. When Hwang was speaking with the king, belonging of course meant subjecthood, but regardless of context it seems language was an important marker

When peace broke 97 of identity. Language’s importance is not something that we could have taken as given. Chosŏn scholars prided themselves on their knowledge of Chinese language and literature, and espoused universalizing Neo-Confucian norms that linked them more to Chinese scholars than to the Koreans of lower classes. As regards the Japanese, the diarists’ depictions of humane acts by their Japanese hosts point to how the embassy’s working with Japanese people in a close, cooperative context would have encouraged a weakening of caricatures and a fuller understanding of the Japanese as human beings. The transmission of such a story to a wider Chosŏn audience via Hwang’s diary may have also added a depth and complexity to people’s imaginings of Japan and the Japanese – if they were open to such ideas.

Notes 1 A number of factors contributed to the change in the official Ming stance. The Ming army suffered from supply shortages (particularly as the Korean campaign was not the only campaign at this time) as well as outbreaks of disease, and the decision to pursue peace remained highly controversial in the Beijing court. For an overview of evolving Ming policy, see Kenneth Swope, A Dragon’s Head and a Serpent’s Tail: Ming China and the First Great East Asian War, 1592–1598 (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2009). 2 Yukinaga claimed he had been calling for a truce since the moment he arrived, but his sincerity and urgency in doing so seems to have grown over time. According to Hwang Shin, the turning point for Yukinaga was when he experienced the power of Ming heavy artillery at the siege of Pyongyang. (‘Sŏnjo sillok’ 宣祖實錄 (Annals of the Sŏnjo Reign) n.d., 1596.12.21, National Institute of Korean History.) The Japanese did not have heavy artillery, only arquebuses. Kenneth Swope’s research has highlighted how this disparity in military technology was a decisive factor in the conflict. (Swope, A Dragon’s Head and a Serpent’s Tail.) Speaking to Hwang Shin, Yukinaga himself claimed he had tried to pursue peace from when he first landed in Chosŏn. While this may well have been a lie, it is true that he had a vested interest in peace, as he and his family were involved in overseas trade. (Hwang Shin 黃愼, ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’ 日本往還日記 (To Japan and Back Again: A Diary) n.d., 27a–27b (12.8), Kyōto University Kawai Archive 京都大学河合文庫.) 3 Takeda Mariko 武田万里子, ‘Toyotomi Hideyoshi no Ajia chiri ninshiki’ 豊臣秀吉 のアジア地理認識 (Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s Geographical Conception of Asia), Kaijishi kenkyū 海事史研究 67 (2010). 4 Atobe Makoto 跡部信, ‘Toyotomi seiken ki no taigai kankei to chitsujokan’ 豊臣政 権期の対外関係と秩序観 (Foreign Relations and View of the World Order during the Toyotomi Government Period) Nihon-shi kenkyū 日本史研究 585 (2011): esp. 77–78. 5 Key members of the negotiating group were Ming envoy Shen Weijing 沈惟敬, foremost Japanese commander Konishi Yukinaga 小西行長, Yanagawa Shigenobu 柳川 調信 (from the Sō 宗 house of Tsushima, near Korea), and Konishi [Naitō] Joan 内藤 如安 (a favoured vassal of Yukinaga, who had travelled as an emissary to Beijing), as well as the monk Genso 玄蘇 (who had negotiated with Chosŏn since before the war). This group repeatedly met for long discussions. Though Hwang Shin was for a period assigned to accompany Shen, when Shen entered Konishi’s camp, Hwang was reportedly kept in an isolated room with a constant guard, lest he learn what was going on. He, and the Chosŏn court, were evidently not trusted by the negotiators to see the wisdom of their enterprise. ‘Sŏnjo sillok’, 1591.9.28(1).

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6 Even after the 1596 mission collapsed, Yukinaga et al. argued that a more high-profile emissary from Chosŏn – specifically, one of the king’s sons – would be enough to placate Hideyoshi. Yukinaga pleaded with Hwang to this effect. Hwang Shin, ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’, n.d., 28a–28b. 7 Such was the gulf in understanding between the rulers of Chosŏn and Japan: Hideyoshi, believing Chosŏn to be a vassal that had refused to obey him, would have felt he had shown lenience in releasing his hostages, whereas for the Chosŏn court, such a request was nothing short of an insult. The monk Genso explained the situation to his Chosŏn interlocutor with a ruthless – we might imagine gleeful – pragmatism: Chosŏn could have afforded to be self-righteously offended if it had the military force to expel the Japanese, but given that it didn’t, it must do as instructed. He also hinted at how he and the other negotiators would continue to creatively mediate after the war, ensuring peace regardless of what diplomatic relationship Chosŏn chose to hold with Japan. ‘Sŏnjo sillok’, 1596.1.01(3). 8 There was reluctance in the Chosŏn court to sending an accompanying Chosŏn emissary, as this would signal a desire to repair relations. Apart from the devastation of the country, in particular the desecration of the Chosŏn royal tombs was seen as an important reason why Japan could never be forgiven and diplomatic relations never resumed. From a protocol point of view, it was also seen as being potentially very awkward for any Chosŏn emissary once there. Shen Weijing promised to ensure they avoided embarrassment. Ibid. 9 Hwang reports the words of a Chosŏn official sent to ask Yang Fangheng whether a Chosŏn emissary should accompany them to Japan (as demanded by Shen Weijing), to which the chief ambassador replied, ‘[The] matter is solely with Shen [Weijing]. I have no way of knowing how I should proceed, let alone bothering about whether your country sends an accompanying emissary across the sea!’ 「陪臣帶去事 專在 沈遊擊 我則自家進退 亦不能知 何暇管爾國陪臣過海之事乎」 (Ibid.). 10 Ibid. 11 After the embassy Hwang Shin went on to aid in the reconstruction of the southern areas, and was commended in his work. For part of the war he accompanied the prince Kwanghaegun 光海君 (1574–1641), and this helped him gain favour during Kwanghaegun’s subsequent reign. Yi Taejin, ‘Hwang Shin’ 黃愼, Hanguk minjok munhwa taebaekkwasajŏn (The Academy of Korean Studies, 1998). 12 ‘Sŏnjo sillok’, 1596.1.01(3). 13 One copy of Ilbon wanghwan ilgi 日本往還日記 is held in the Kyujanggak archive in Seoul National University and the other in the Kawai Archive in Kyoto University. All references to the text in this book are to the Kawai Archive manuscript; the Kyujanggak version is available as ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’ 日本往還日記, in (Kugyŏk) Haehaeng ch’ongjae (國譯)海行總載, ed. Minjok munhwa ch’uch’ŏnhoe (Seoul: Minjok munhwa ch’uch’ŏnhoe 民族文化推薦會, 1974). The Kawai Archive version is one of the documents collected by Kawai Hirotami 河合弘民 (1874–1918), so it seems likely it entered Japan around the beginning of the twentieth century. Neither of the copies has a preface or postscript, or other production notes. As a result, we cannot be sure when the diary was first finalized and circulated. A close comparison of the two copies reveals that the Kawai edition may in fact be a copy of the Kyujanggak edition. The Kawai edition contains many more omissions and incorrect characters, and some of these copying errors may have been caused by the way particular characters were written in the Kyujanggak edition. This is not certain, however: it may also be that they both share a common textual ancestor. There is one instance of the Kawai copy containing text absent from the Kyujanggak version: the phrase ‘the accompanying official [i.e. Pak Hongjang] rose with me’ (陪臣隨我起身). (Kawai Archive version, 16b; in (Kugyŏk) Haehaeng ch’ongjae, 50a.) As the Kyujanggak text is unnatural at this point, however, this additional text may have been a correction by the Kawai version copyist.

When peace broke 99 14 At the very least, the text it is written in the first person. An example of this is the diary entry for Hwang Shin’s birthday, where the author describes his birthday using the humble word ch’ŏn’gang 賤降 (lit. lowly descent). ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’, n.d., 20a (9.15). 15 「老賊兇狡 前後率辭不一而足 愼曾不能出一言而詰之 唯聽恐脅之言 俛首以 歸」 Multiple complaints were made through the Court of Remonstrations: ‘Sŏnjo sillok’, 1596.12.26–27. 16 Hwang had fallen foul of those in positions of power a few years earlier. Oh Hŭimun, ‘Swaemi rok’ 鎻尾錄 (Record of a Refugee) n.d., 丙申 (1596) 6.4, Jangseogak Royal Archives. 17 Pak was a military official, whose charge in 1596 was the Taegu 大丘 area. He was chosen to accompany the civil official Hwang Shin upon the suggestion of the Prime Minister Yu Sŏngnyong 柳成龍 (1542–1607). Cho Wŏllae, ‘Pak Hongjang’ 朴弘長, Hanguk minjok munhwa taebaekkwasajŏn (The Academy of Korean Studies, 1997). 18 This manuscript edition was obtained by the Museum as late as the 1990s, and its ownership history before that time is not known. A likely scenario is that the diary remained with the Pak family for most of its history, and then – like so many historical documents – made its way to Japan after engagement between the two countries intensified in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Supporting this idea are extensive additions and corrections made to the main body of Kwangam nok, which refer to Pak Hongjang as sŏnjo 先祖 (ancestor). These are made in different hands, so may have been added over a period of time. For example: ‘Kwan’gam nok’ 觀感錄 (Record of That Seen and Sensed) n.d., 附錄遺事 7a, Nagoya Castle Museum Library, Saga. 19「右東槎錄一帙 迺奉使曾叔祖航海時日記也 今不知其出於誰手 而詳其語勢 必奉 使公管下掌史者所錄也 其陰陽風雨道里次舍 記之非不詳 而奉使公諮諏詢謀之 間 言動容色之際 有足以鎮懾同舟疊讋異類者 反不暇及焉 甚可惜也」 ‘Tong sa rok’ 東槎錄 (Record of an Eastern Voyage) n.d., 14a, in ‘Kwan’gam nok’. Nagoya Castle Museum Library, Saga. 20 Ibid. at 3b (8.12). 21 ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’, n.d., 4a (8.15); ‘Tong sa rok’, 4a (8.15). 22 ‘Two years’ refers to his accompanying Shen Weijing to live in the Japanese encampments. ‘Eighth month’s raft’ (八月槎): this simultaneously refers to the actual month they sailed and the legendary raft of the same name, which went to the stars. ‘The provinces or barbarian lands’: this sentence is a reference to Lunyu 論語 (The Analects, traditionally attributed to Confucius), and the translation attempts to explain the context of the passage. ‘Four thousand miles’ (四千里): ‘mile’ here is used to translate ‘ri’, a much shorter unit of distance. This is probably a reference to serving the length of the country and beyond, as Chosŏn was considered to stretch for three thousand ri. ‘Land of the Sun’: a play on ‘Japan’ 日本, which can be translated as ‘Land of the Rising Sun’. Divine Holiness (靈 聖): Hwang is addressing the highest of the gods in the pantheon of folk religion. 「朝鮮 通信使某 敢[昭*]告於東海之神 伏以豺虎叢中 既持二年之節 蛟龍窟上 又乘八月 之槎 捐驅[軀]是甘 稽首自誓 伏念某遭時板盪 許國驅馳 雖險阻艱難 備嘗之矣 然 州里蠻貊 可行乎哉 賴有忠赤之不渝 可質上蒼而無媿 四千里行役 何敢一毫憚勞 三十年工夫 正宜今日得力 固王室之靡[鹽] 抑臣職之當然 直掛風帆 遙指日域 茍可 安社利國 死且不辭 如使辱命失身 生亦何益 伏願靈聖俯鑒忱誠 幸斯言之不誣 天 有知也 倘一念之或怠 神其殛之 謹告」(* Character missing in Kawai manuscript, present in Kyujanggak version.) ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’, n.d., 5a–6a (8.25). 23 Oh Hŭimun reveals that Hwang had always suffered from seasickness in his entry made before the embassy set sail. (Oh Hŭimun, ‘Swaemi rok’, 丙申 (1596) 6.4.) The entry in Ilbon wanghwan ilgi for the first part of the voyage also describes in detail how one is so violently sick that any medicines promised to be of use are no help at all, as one is in no condition to swallow them – but all this is related in terms of the experience of those on board and general advice, with no mention of the Chief Ambassador himself suffering particularly.

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24 ‘Tong sa rok’, 5a (8.25). 25 The Amended Annals of King Sŏnjo’s reign (Sŏnjo sujong sillok 宣祖修正實錄), which were written some time after the war, include the incident and the text, and record that ‘the people of the country passed on and recited’ the text. The popularity of the text could be considered a later exaggeration (from a source which highly praised Hwang Shin), but other evidence suggests it was indeed widely celebrated. A copy of the text can also be found scribbled on the back page of the 1596 volume of Oh Hŭimun’s diary, and Oh notes the story of nearly-avoided danger that came with the ode. (Oh Hŭimun, ‘Swaemi rok’, 丙申 (1596) 附錄.) 26 Hwang’s oath and the story of its telling was immortalized in later tales of the war, including the popular semi-fictional account Imjin nok 壬辰錄 (Record of the Imjin Year), which circulated in both Classical Chinese and vernacular versions. (Tansil kŏsa 丹室居士 (the Vermillion Recluse), ‘Imjin nok’ 壬辰錄 (Record of the Imjin Year) n.d., v. 5 12a–12b (通信使黃愼朴弘長入日本), Jangseogak Royal Archives.) 27 ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’, n.d., 8b (閏 8.18). 28 Such differences in the diaries continue throughout, beyond what is mentioned here. 29「高閣板屋連簷十餘里 幾至萬家 曾因地震 間有頹壞未修者 壓死人畜無算云矣 市中物色照耀奪目 不知其幾千萬種也」 ‘Tong sa rok’, 9a (閏 8.19). 30 The quake was only one of a number in the west of Japan over a few days; it’s now estimated to have been of magnitude 7.25–7.75. (Matsuda Tokihiko 松田時彦, ‘ “Yōchūi dansō” no saikentō’ 「要注意断層」の再検討 (A Re-Evaluation of Precaution Fault Zones), Katsudansō kenkyū 活断層研究, 1996, 1–8.) The diarists record news of devastation coming from different quakes and experience some themselves on their journey. See, for example, ‘Tong sa rok’, 7b (閏 8.12). Oh Hŭimun heard of a large earthquake killing ‘tens of thousands’ of Hideyoshi’s soldiers (certainly an exaggeration), and joined with Hwang Shin and others in proposing that this was Heaven’s revenge for the injustice of Japan’s actions. ‘Swaemi rok’, 丙申 (1596) 9.02. 31「行長等 回自京城來報曰 關白聞信使之來 極甚喜悅 不待別營館宇 當於九月初 二會見天使及信使 云云」 ‘Tong sa rok’, 9a (閏 8.23). 32 Ibid. 33「平調信招朴大根謂曰 即刻行長正成自關伯處回還言關伯曰 當初我欲通中國而 朝鮮過不為通情 及致動兵之後 沈遊擊欲調戢兩國 而朝鮮上本 極陳其不可 且以 沈遊擊為與日本同心 每每惡之 李天使之出去 亦回朝鮮之人恐動 冊使既渡海 而 朝鮮不肯差官跟來 今始緩緩來到 且不遣王子來 事事輕我甚矣 今不可許見來使 我當先見天使 後姑留朝鮮使臣 稟帖兵部 審其來遲之故 然後方為許見云」 ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’, n.d., 10a–10b (閏 8.29). ‘Celestial Ambassador Li’ refers to Li Zongcheng 李宗城 (dates unknown), the originally-appointed envoy who suddenly abandoned his mission in unclear circumstances. 34 Shigenobu presented it as a sudden, unexpected change that threatened to derail their plans at the last moment. Ibid. 35 Citing the missionary Luís Fróis’ observations, Atobe argues that Hideyoshi not only expected that Chosŏn should be, but actually thought that Chosŏn was already, a vassal of both the Ming and Japan. (Atobe Makoto, ‘Toyotomi seiken ki no taigai kankei to chitsujokan’, 75–78.) Sajima also provides a convincing analysis pointing to Hideyoshi treating Chosŏn as a vassal. (Sajima Akiko 佐島顕子, ‘Hideyoshi’s View of Chosŏn Korea and Japan-Ming Negotiations’, in The East Asian War: International Relations, Violence, and Memory, ed. James Bryant Lewis (Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge, 2015).) 36 On Hideyoshi’s tactics in relation to his treatment of his vassals and by extension Chosŏn, see: Sajima Akiko, ‘Hideyoshi’s View of Chosŏn Korea and Japan-Ming Negotiations’; Mary Elizabeth Berry, Hideyoshi (Cambridge, MA; London: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University, 1982). Hideyoshi’s desire for respect and recognition also appears to have been one of the motivations for the initial invasion.

When peace broke 101 37 There is a strong argument that recognition from the Ming was in fact what Hideyoshi wanted above all else. While the gold seal of ‘King of Japan’ was something, at the Nagoya negotiations his team pressed hard for a Ming princess. Hideyoshi maintaining a foothold in Chosŏn was a bargaining chip with which to demand more from the Ming, and the fact that he did not receive more, must have contributed to his subsequent rage. A Japanese monk reportedly argued thus: ‘The eight provinces of Chosŏn do not compare with the golden seal of the Ming … [land], gold or jewels are not what [Hideyoshi] desires; what he seeks is only to establish his reputation for eternal posterity.’「朝鮮国八道者不及大明之金印 […] 州域県邑金銀珠玉者非大 閤所欲、唯遺功名於万代者所希求也」 Quoted in Atobe, ‘Toyotomi seiken ki no taigai kankei to chitsujokan’: 72–74. 38 Immediately after the earthquake had struck, Yukinaga’s rival Katō Kiyomasa, who had been somewhat sidelined, returned to Hideyoshi’s side. Atobe postulates that it was Kiyomasa, whispering in his ear, that brought Chosŏn’s ‘insolence’ to Hideyoshi’s attention and roused him to anger. It was certainly Kiyomasa who benefited from Hideyoshi’s decision to re-invade, as he led the campaign (with all the spoils and rewards that entailed). Hwang’s account seems to support this hypothesis, when he reports (see below) Shigenobu as saying ‘if Kiyomasa has his way …’. Kiyomasa would have understood what Hideyoshi wanted as well as anyone; he is reported as telling the Korean monk Yujŏng 惟政 (1544–1610) that Chosŏn sending Hideyoshi a prince would be enough to placate him (corroborating Yukinaga’s same claim to Hwang). Atobe, ‘Toyotomi seiken ki no taigai kankei to chitsujokan’. 39 ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’, n.d., 12b (9.4). 40 Ibid. at 14a (9.6). 41 Ibid. The entries in Tong sa rok for these critical few days have been lost, as the original diary was damaged over time (before it was copied into Kwangam nok). For the 6th day of the ninth month, all that is left is – tantalizingly: ‘the Kampaku said, ‘Chosŏn …’. ‘Tong sa rok’, 10a. 42 ‘Tolerate it for the time being’ (我姑忍之): the object of endurance has been interpreted in different ways. Later texts wishing to portray Hideyoshi as unhappy with the investiture itself interpret it as putting up with the investiture. Given that all other reports in the diary indicate Hideyoshi was happy about the Imperial Ambassadors coming, however, it seems more probable he was ‘tolerating’ the Ming, precisely because they sent him envoys of investiture. He was choosing to overlook the Ming’s defiance of him in Chosŏn and refusal of his other earlier requests, because he appreciated that they were giving him recognition. Trying to make the investiture itself the object of endurance is also an awkward reading of this sentence, as the investiture is provided as the reason for choosing to ‘tolerate’ (endure indignity). 「關伯大怒曰 天 朝則既已遣使冊封 我姑忍耐 而朝鮮則無禮至此 今不可許和 我方再要廝殺 況可 議撤之事乎 天使亦不須久留 明日使請上船 朝鮮使臣亦令出去可也 我當一面調 兵 趁今冬往朝鮮云云 且聞已召清正來計事 清正得志 則事將不測 行長與我輩死 無日矣」 ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’, n.d., 14a–14b (9.6). 43 Ibid. at 15a (9.6). 44 Luís Fróis was a Portuguese missionary who stayed in Japan from 1563 to 1597. By his account Hideyoshi ‘flew into such a Passion and Rage, that he was perfectly out of himself. He froth’d and foam’d at the Mouth, he ranted and tore till his Head smoak’d like Fire, and his Body was all over in dropping Sweat’. Cited in Samuel Jay Hawley, The Imjin War: Japan’s Sixteenth-Century Invasion of Korea and Attempt to Conquer China (Seoul; Berkeley: Royal Asiatic Society, Korea Branch ; Institute of East Asian Studies, University of California, 2008), 419. 45 Indeed, when the king interviewed him on his return, Hwang began by saying that he deserved death for failing in his mission due to his own incompetence. The king responded to this humility kindly, saying it was not his fault. ‘Sŏnjo sillok’, 1596.12.21.

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46 A corresponding entry in Tong sa rok indicates that Hwang and Pak did indeed visit the Chinese ambassadors on that day, and it may be that the conversation followed a line similar to that in Ilbon wanghwan ilgi, yet it seems likely such dialogues were set-pieces arranged by Hwang to justify himself. ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’, n.d., 16a–17a (9.8); ‘Tong sa rok’, 10a (9.8). 47 A copy of the Ming ambassadors’ report from Japan is recorded in ‘Sŏnjo sillok’, 1596.12.7(5). 48「先是 通信使初到界濱 我國被擄男婦 爭來謁見 … 各倭將 亦時遣所擄兒童輩來 謁 每言和事若完 則當隨使臣歸 及聞通信使將啟程 或有給行資而遣之者 稍稍來 到通信使所寓 以待上船之 期 至是 各其主倭等 聞和事不成 當再廝殺 遂改前言 已到寓所者 亦皆被召去 唯金永川女子及男婦二十餘人 偕載卜物船 通信使上船 之際 我國男婦 追送號泣者不知其幾人 一行莫不酸鼻 不為發船 仍宿船上」 ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’, n.d., 20a–20b (9.9). 49「被搶男婦 懷戀首丘 自遠近來集者 千百為群 而兇徒禁抑 幽囚不放 或有聞我聲 音來哭者 慘不忍相視 兒時見俘者 則口熟鴃舌 不解我語 良可悼歎也」 ‘Tong sa rok’, 5b (8.28). 50 The contemporary noble (yangban) diarist Oh Hŭimun, for example, evinces more concern for the fates of those of his own class than commoners or slaves (see subsequent chapter on Oh Hŭimun); though he too is upset by the story of a common woman being taken to Japan with no hope of return. Oh Hŭimun, ‘Swaemi rok’, 壬辰 (1592) 9.15. 51 ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’, n.d., 19b–20a (9.14). 52 ‘Sŏnjo sillok’, 1596.12.21. 53 Hirotaka is referred to by his alternative name, Masanari 正成. ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’, n.d., 28a–28b (12.8). 54「大槩 倭國幅員稍廣於我國 而無名山大川之固 風土物產俱不及我國 有曰富士山 在國之東 最號大山 而別無形勝佳麗之可觀」 Ibid. at 29b. 55「官畧放[倣]唐制為之 而其實別無所管職事 如調信自稱秘書少監 所謂圖書 而目 不知書 平清正自稱主計 而初不管錢穀 蓋只用虛御[銜]也 其民有兵農工商僧 而 唯僧及公族有解文字者 其餘則雖將官輩 亦不識一字」 Ibid. at 31a–31b. 56 Kang Hang 姜沆, ‘Kanyang nok’ 看羊錄, in (Kugyŏk) Haehaeng ch’ongjae (國譯)海 行總載, ed. Minjok munhwa ch’uch’ŏnhoe (Seoul: Minjok munhwa ch’uch’ŏnhoe 民 族文化推薦會, 1974), 424 (詣承政院啓辭); Hou Jigao, ‘Quan Zhe bing zhi kao’ 全 浙兵制考 (Military System of the Entire Zhe Region), ed. Siku quan shu cunmu congshu bianzuan weiyuanhui, vol. 子31, Siku quan shu cunmu congshu 四庫全書存 目叢書 (Jinan: Qi Lu shu she 齐鲁书社, 1995), 179. 57 Emphasis added. 「兵則喫官糧 商人最富實 而以其利倍故稅稍重 國有大小費用 皆責於商人 農民則每田收其半 此外無它賦役 漕轉工役皆給傭價 故弊不及民」 ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’, n.d., 30b–31a. 58 The context to Hwang’s writing was that in the latter part of the sixteenth century, the tax and corvée burden on the common people in Chosŏn was particularly heavy, and was leading to social unrest. Immediately before the war, Hwang Shin’s teacher Sŏng Hon identified this problem and proposed a set of forceful reforms that would relieve that burden. His reform movement met with political opposition, resulting in his removal from office – and temporarily also Hwang Shin’s. Han Myŏnggi 韓明基, ‘Imjin waeran chikjŏn Tong-Asia chŏngsae’ 임진왜란 직전 동아시아 정세 (East Asia Immediately before the Imjin War), Han-Il gwan’gae-sa yŏngu 한일관계사연 구 43 (2012.12): 187–189. 59 ‘Tong sa rok’, 3a (8.10). 60「以金銀塗魚肉麵飯之上 剪綵為花 或刻木加彩 以造花草之形 置諸筵席之間 而 極精巧逼真 四五步之外則 便不能辨真假也」 ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’, n.d., 33a. 61「極盡精潔」 ‘Tong sa rok’, 6a (閏 8.3). 62 Ibid. at 9a (閏 8.19). 63 Ibid. at 3a (8.12).

When peace broke 103 64 「至於嫁娶 不避娚妹 父子并淫一娼 亦無非之者 真禽獸也」 ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’, n.d., 33b. 65 These Calls to Arms also gave strong expression to the idea that proper relationships separate man from beast, and therefore acting on loyalty to king and country was the pressing test facing the men of Chosŏn. The context for all of these ideas was NeoConfucian ideas, particularly a distinction between civility and barbarism originating during the Song dynasty (960–1269) in China, which was under constant threat of barbarian attack. Oh Hŭimun, ‘Swaemi rok’, 壬辰 (1592) 附錄告同道州府郡縣檄. 66 Gari Ledyard, ‘Confucianism and War: The Korean Security Crisis of 1598’, Journal of Korean Studies 6 (1989). 67 Han Myŏnggi argues Sarim thought developed a strong emphasis on the moral aspect of the lord-vassal relationship in response to the violent and autocratic reigns of Sejo 世祖 (1458–1468) and Yŏnsangun 燕山君 (1494–1506), and on moral criteria in general in response to abuses of power by those who inherited power rather than obtaining it through scholarly learning. Han Myŏnggi, ‘Imjin waeran chikjŏn TongAsia chŏngsae’, 175. 68 Ibid. at 200. 69 Hwang discussed these ideas in a memorial written before the mission. (Oh Hŭimun, ‘Swaemi rok’, 甲午 (1594) 附錄 東宮疏.) After the war, when calling for the rebuilding of the education system, he described Sohak as essential reading, emphasizing the need to understand proper relationships. (‘Sŏnjo sillok’, 1601.8.28.) 70 ‘Tong sa rok’, 3a (8.10). Staining one’s teeth black was a contemporary Japanese custom. 71 Officials at the Chosŏn court feared the Chinese would push the blame for the collapse of the peace process onto Chosŏn, and refuse to aid Chosŏn further. ‘Sŏnjo sillok’, 1596.11.15. 72 See notes above and discussion in Atobe Makoto, ‘Toyotomi seiken ki no taigai kankei to chitsujokan’. 73 The version given in Swope’s account, for example, has Hideyoshi discovering for the first time he was being invested as ‘King of Japan’, whereas in the ambassador’s diary version, Hideyoshi happily accepted investiture, and it is after several days that he is riled by the request that he withdraw from Chosŏn. Swope, A Dragon’s Head and a Serpent’s Tail, 220–222.

References Atobe Makoto 跡部信. ‘Toyotomi seiken ki no taigai kankei to chitsujokan’ 豊臣政権期 の対外関係と秩序観 (Foreign Relations and View of the World Order during the Toyotomi Government Period). Nihon-shi kenkyū 日本史研究 585 (2011): 56−82. Berry, Mary Elizabeth. Hideyoshi. Cambridge, MA; London: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University. 1982. Cho Wŏllae. ‘Pak Hongjang’ 朴弘長. Hanguk minjok munhwa taebaekkwasajŏn. The Academy of Korean Studies. 1997. http://encykorea.aks.ac.kr. Han Myŏnggi 韓明基. ‘Imjin waeran chikjŏn Tong-Asia chŏngsae’ 임진왜란 직전 동아 시아 정세 (East Asia Immediately before the Imjin War). Han-Il gwan’gae-sa yŏngu 한일관계사연구 43 (2012.12): 175–214. Hawley, Samuel Jay. The Imjin War: Japan’s Sixteenth-Century Invasion of Korea and Attempt to Conquer China. n.p.: Conquistador Press. 2014. Hou Jigao. ‘Quan Zhe bing zhi kao’ 全浙兵制考 (Military System of the Entire Zhe Region). Edited by Siku quan shu cunmu congshu bianzuan weiyuanhui, Vol. 子31. Siku quan shu cunmu congshu 四庫全書存目叢書. Jinan: Qi Lu shu she 齐鲁书 社. 1995.

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Hwang Shin 黃愼. ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’ 日本往還日記. In (Kugyŏk) Haehaeng ch’ongjae (國譯)海行總載, edited by Minjok munhwa ch’uch’ŏnhoe. Seoul: Minjok munhwa ch’uch’ŏnhoe 民族文化推薦會. 1974. Hwang Shin. ‘Ilbon wanghwan ilgi’ 日本往還日記 (To Japan and Back Again: A Diary), n.d. Kyoto University Kawai Archive 京都大学河合文庫. Kang Hang 姜沆. ‘Kanyang nok’ 看羊錄. In (Kugyŏk) Haehaeng ch’ongjae (國譯)海行 總載, edited by Minjok munhwa ch’uch’ŏnhoe. Seoul: Minjok munhwa ch’uch’ŏnhoe 民族文化推薦會. 1974. Ledyard, Gari. ‘Confucianism and War: The Korean Security Crisis of 1598’. Journal of Korean Studies 6 (1989). Matsuda Tokihiko 松田時彦. ‘ “Yōchūi dansō” no saikentō’ 「要注意断層」の再検討 (A Re-Evaluation of Precaution Fault Zones). Katsudansō kenkyū 活断層研究, 1996, 1–8. Oh Hŭimun. ‘Swaemi rok’ 鎻尾錄 (Record of a Refugee), n.d. Jangseogak Royal Archives. http://yoksa.aks.ac.kr. Sajima Akiko 佐島顕子. ‘Hideyoshi’s View of Chosŏn Korea and Japan-Ming Negotiations’. In The East Asian War: International Relations, Violence, and Memory, edited by James Bryant Lewis. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. 2015. ‘Sŏnjo sillok’ 宣祖實錄 (Annals of the Sŏnjo Reign), n.d. National Institute of Korean History. http://sillok.history.go.kr. Swope, Kenneth. A Dragon’s Head and a Serpent’s Tail: Ming China and the First Great East Asian War, 1592–1598. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. 2009. Takeda Mariko 武田万里子. ‘Toyotomi Hideyoshi no Ajia chiri ninshiki’ 豊臣秀吉のア ジア地理認識 (Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s Geographical Conception of Asia). Kaiji-shi kenkyū 海事史研究 67 (2010). Tansil kŏsa 丹室居士 (The Vermillion Recluse). ‘Imjin nok’ 壬辰錄 (Record of the Imjin Year), n.d. Jangseogak Royal Archives. http://yoksa.aks.ac.kr. ‘Tong sa rok’ 東槎錄 (Record of an Eastern Voyage), n.d., in ‘Kwan’gam nok’ 觀感錄 (Record of That Seen and Sensed). Nagoya Castle Museum Library, Saga. Yi Taejin. ‘Hwang Shin’ 黃愼. Hanguk minjok munhwa taebaekkwasajŏn. The Academy of Korean Studies. 1998. http://encykorea.aks.ac.kr.

5

Descent into hell

Keinen, reluctant invader

Chōsen hinikki 朝鮮日々記, or ‘Daily Diary of Chosŏn’, was written by the monk Keinen 慶念 (1536–1611), who joined the second invasion ordered by Hideyoshi in 1597. It describes his observations and feelings during his perilous journey across the sea and through the bitter Korean winter, climaxing with a narrow escape from death in the siege of Ulsan. Returning to the temple of which he was abbot, he left his experiences for posterity in the form of a diary written in Classical Japanese prose and waka 和歌 poetry. Chōsen hinikki has special historical value as one of the few Japanese sources to detail the treatment of civilians during the war of 1592–1598. What makes it even more significant is the relatively sympathetic gaze with which it describes human suffering compared to other Japanese writings. Probably for this reason, it received little attention until the second half of the twentieth century, when the author’s apparent ‘anti-war’ stance resonated with a rejection of imperialism by Japanese scholars.1 Looking at it today, Chōsen hinikki is important for several reasons. Keinen represents someone steeped in central tradition who suddenly found himself in a foreign land with foreign people, and it is revealing to see how he translated his experiences into the idiom of literary Japanese tradition. Keinen’s very different Buddhist perspective, focusing on suffering, for example, also provides a welcome counterpoint to the many warriors’ memoirs (sōgunki 從軍記) from the war – and an important one, as Buddhism was a powerful force in Japanese society and thought. As we shall see, Keinen’s diary in fact reveals interaction between ideas central to warriors’ accounts of the invasion – such as Japan as the ‘Land of the Gods’ – and core Buddhist beliefs.

The author Keinen was reportedly the son of the lord of Kakegawa 掛川 (Enshū 遠州, present-day Shizuoka 静岡 prefecture) before he chose to eschew worldly ties and become a monk of the Jōdo Shinshū 浄土真宗 school of Pure Land Buddhism.2 When Keinen left for the peninsula, he had for several years been the abbot of the small temple Anyōji 安養寺 in Usuki 臼杵.3 He was already in his seventh decade, and had a large family including grandchildren.4 It was at the call of the lord of Usuki, Ōta Kazuyoshi 太田一吉 (d. 1617), that he joined

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the invasion force in 1597. His chief purpose seems to have been to act as a doctor for Ōta.5 Beyond this circumstantial information, we know little of Keinen the man other than what is revealed in his diary. We do know that he lived and studied in Honganji 本願寺, an important temple in Osaka, for a number of years.6 His study at this centre of learning before he was sent to take up a post in the provinces must have been a formative experience for him: his studies would have offered him a deeper and wider historical and cosmological context in which to interpret the world around him. We see Keinen quoting religious and secular classics, such as the Ise and Genji monogatari (伊勢、源氏物語, ‘Tales of Ise’ and ‘Tale of Genji’), throughout his diary.7 Scholars consider his allusions to be mature, showing that he had fully absorbed the literary canon and pondered the texts’ implications.8 Given his stage in life, it probably came as a shock to Keinen to learn he was to leave his place of work and family behind and be thrust into a foreign warzone. Keinen did not simply follow behind the advancing army either, but found himself at the forefront of the invasion: Ōta Kazuyoshi commanded his small army almost as an independent force, always seeking to be in the vanguard.9 Protesting he had no wish to go, in his diary Keinen repeatedly laments the hardship of making the journey at his elderly age. As joining Ōta Kazuyoshi meant danger from the outset and proved to be a cruel test of endurance, we have no reason to doubt Keinen’s protestations. Yet, in professing reluctance to travel in his travel diary, he was also following an established literary tradition.10 In any case, as a Buddhist monk travelling with the Japanese army he was by no means alone. Many monks went to Korea, including some famous names. During the invasion they practised medicine and helped with communication (through knowledge of Chinese writing), record-keeping, and the carrying out of religious rituals.11 Other monks have also left accounts of their time in Korea; one notable example is Tenkei of Myōsinji 妙心寺天荊 and his Sai sei ki 西征 記 (Record of the Western Campaign), a diary of the 1592 invasion. Compared with that of Tenkei, Keinen’s writing stands out for the depth of his Buddhist faith. While Sai sei ki records what Tenkei enjoyed eating and drinking, Keinen’s faith and doubts permeate the entire diary. Similarly, while other monks were known to take part in cultural plunder, Keinen sees the rampant looting before him through Buddhist eyes: as a manifestation of greed and spiritual ignorance. For Keinen, his status as a monk was not just an occupation; his Buddhist belief was the defining characteristic of his authorial persona.

The diary Because one of the functions assigned to monks joining military expeditions was recording their masters’ movements and achievements, some scholars have postulated that Keinen’s diary might have been born out of such a recordkeeping role.12 The other account of Ōta Kazuyoshi’s army’s movements, Chōsen ki 朝鮮記 (Record of Chosŏn), written by Ōta’s vassal Ōkōchi Hidemoto

Descent into hell 107 大河内秀元 (1576–1666), would certainly have been based on notes taken in this way. A comparison of Chōsen hinikki and Chōsen ki highlights Keinen’s omission of basic details key to a gunki 軍記 (military record) commissioned by or written for one’s lord, however.13 If Keinen had been ordered to take notes, then he would have made an effort to record place names, details of battles, and numbers of men. These all form an integral part of the narrative of Chōsen ki, yet Keinen is rarely specific even about place names, let alone other military details. This lack of specificity points to a distinct purpose of writing: it suggests Keinen kept his own diary on his own initiative. Keinen expresses his aim in writing to be the preservation of what he thought and felt for posterity.14 His desire to transmit his observations and experiences can explain his choice of writing style: in the period of upheaval in which Keinen lived, waka 和歌 poetry (lit. ‘Japanese songs’, in opposition to Kanshi 漢詩, ‘Chinese poetry’, for example) took on a role of recording daily life experiences.15 More than a simple record, though, Keinen was consciously writing literature, as Elison rightly points out.16 His sensitivity to literary form is evident in his extensive use of poetic verse to capture a scene or feeling that he experiences: holding a single moment in time, as does a work of art. Keinen’s thoughts and feelings and literary creation were probably not appreciated by a wide audience until 1879, however. It was not until then that his diary was first printed, by Tokyo University.17 Of course we can never know how many people read the diary up until that point, but the limited number of surviving copies and lack of other recorded references to the work point to a narrow readership focused on Keinen’s own temple Anyōji. There are two copies of the text held at Anyōji (one is shown in Figure 5.1). Beyond these, the oldest known copy was made in 1832 by the well-known scholar Gotō Sekiden 後藤碩田 (1805–1882). Gotō wrote that he obtained access to one of the copies held at Anyōji with the help of a friend, who presumably had the necessary personal connections. He describes the diary as ‘a well-kept secret’ (禁秘之一).18 As to why the text was kept secret, we can recall that during the Edo period (1603–1868) texts recounting Hideyoshi’s invasion were officially banned. It is not impossible that the author’s acerbic commentary on the samurai, who constituted the ruling class of the period, was also considered sensitive. The subsequent printing of the diary in 1879 took place under the reformist Meiji 明治 (1868–1912) government. This Meiji printing was of the copy made by Gotō. It was only in the second half of the twentieth century that Chōsen hinikki began to be discussed in academic writing, used as a historical source, and re-printed with examination of the Anyōji manuscripts.19

Keinen’s journey: through hell to paradise Keinen left his home to set sail for Chosŏn in the summer of 1597. After his ship set out from Takedazu 竹田津 (in modern-day Ōita prefecture; see Map 5.1), taking the traditional route via Tsushima, Keinen arrived in Pusan on the 7th day of the seventh month. After the Chosŏn navy was badly defeated at the Battle of

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Figure 5.1 Title page of Keinen’s diary, now known as Chosen hinikki 朝鮮日々記: ‘Daily diary from the 24th day of the sixth month, 2nd year of the Keichō era [1597], Abbot of Anyōji, Keinen, 62 years of age; adjunct, Ryōma; servant Mataichirō’.

Ch’ilch’ŏnnyang 漆川梁 on the 15th day of the seventh month, the Japanese finally gained unfettered access to the southwestern part of the peninsula (which had largely escaped the initial invasion of 1592–1593). Keinen’s diary plots their journey through this region up to Namwŏn 南原, where Ōta joined the Japanese siege of the city. The Ming–Chosŏn alliance had long anticipated the need to defend this strategic gateway, but they were overwhelmed by combined Japanese forces of over fifty thousand men in the middle of the eighth month. It was in fact Ōta Kazuyoshi and his attendants who were able to claim first entry into the city. As would be expected, Chōsen ki – the record of Ōta’s achievements – narrates in graphic detail this moment of glory and the recognition Ōta received.20 In contrast, Keinen’s diary does not narrate the battle as such, using only a line to record Ōta’s achievement. Keinen’s brief mention of military

Descent into hell 109

Map 5.1 Map showing the route taken by Keinen, who, in the summer of 1597, set out from his hometown of Takedazu to follow the invading Japanese forces to the Korean peninsula.

accomplishment comes amid an on-going description of the slaughter he has witnessed since the army started progressing north. The following day’s entry describes how, after the fall of the city, ‘the sum of people in the city, man and woman, were struck down without remnant; no one was taken alive.’21 Tellingly, Keinen did not glory in his lord’s day of victory; rather he wrote the suffering at Namwŏn into a poem:

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Keinen, reluctant invader They know not what they do! By the ways of this transient world which remains unknowing, man, woman, young, and old all dead and gone.22

Perhaps unsurprisingly, given that Keinen was not a military man, the extreme violence he witnessed during this period left the deepest impression on him. Keinen stayed in Namwŏn for ten days, tending to the wounded. They then went via Imsil 任實 to Chŏnju 全州, where the defence had already collapsed at the news of Namwŏn’s fall.23 Winter weather had set in by the time they had moved to Ulsan 蔚山, on the east coast, on the 8th day of the tenth month, 1597. Before long, ice and snow become themes in Keinen’s writing. Having initially been on the offensive, by this point Kiyomasa and the other Japanese commanders (Ōta with them) were essentially retreating and consolidating their position. The Ming-Chosŏn opposition had rallied under Ming commander Yang Hao 楊鎬 (d. 1629), who eventually brought a large army to lay siege to the fortress at Ulsan at the turn of the year. Keinen waited with the rest of the army at Ulsan for almost three months. In this time he witnessed the fortress being built by forced labour, and a thinning of the ranks as guerrilla attacks, food shortages, and cold gnawed at the expeditionary force. The climax of Keinen’s experience was undoubtedly the dramatic siege of Ulsan. Having once again lost control of the sea to Chosŏn admiral Yi Sunshin 李舜臣 (1545–1598), the Japanese supply lines were cut off, reducing the Ulsan defenders to starvation and then to death from thirst. The fortress defences had not been completed in time, and the outer walls fell to the attackers, though not without huge Chosŏn and Ming casualties. Yet, placed as they were with no obvious escape route, the Japanese in Ulsan resisted the siege despite their desperate lack of supplies. We know from other sources that when Japanese reinforcements appeared on the horizon, Yang Hao decided to retreat, and a near-victory suddenly turned into a rout for the Ming-Chosŏn forces.24 From Keinen’s perspective, however, once the siege began he became convinced that the end was nigh. As the situation around him more and more resembled hell on earth, and death seemed certain, he had a moment of epiphany: taking faith in the promise of the Bodhisattvas that those who will it can be reborn in the Pure Land, he was suddenly liberated from fear of death and began to excitedly anticipate release from this world. Let us now look more closely at how Keinen narrated his great journey, and what his account tells us about his experience and the experiences of the others who joined the invasion.

Crossing into the unknown Keinen’s reluctant departure for Korea was undoubtedly a traumatic and uncertain moment in his life. Not only was he well settled with a family and coming

Descent into hell 111 to the end of his career, but by going to war he could not be certain he would see his family again. From his diary we learn that his tearful parting with family members hung on his heart. In a poem he wrote: The wind, that recalls the sorrow of the mothering wife and children I leave behind, sweeps through me.25 We can suppose following an army implied danger, causing Keinen and his family to worry, but he did not write about this directly. Rather, what he appears to have been most conscious of was that travelling to ‘Kōrai’ (Koryŏ, i.e. Korea) represented a huge distance. Just as in Yoshino Jingozaemon’s memoir, the sea is the focus of the author’s sense of distance, of transitioning into the strange: Even for each of those noble men who endured the crossing of ten-thousand miles of waves, and coming here to Kōrai, given that they will live as one body in this transient world, nobility or lowliness changes not one single thing.26 Yoshino also introduced his tale with a literary flourish which focused on the distance over the water: ‘far, far over the sea of cloud after cloud, to conquer a foreign land’.27 Psychologically, it seems the separation by the sea held symbolic value as a wide barrier. When Keinen wrote of ‘enduring’ (しのぐ, also overcoming [hardship]) a sea crossing of ‘ten-thousand miles’ he reveals his apprehension of this arduous journey. Having moved between islands on the Japanese archipelago, both Keinen and Yoshino would have been familiar with boats, but the crossing to the peninsula was an unprecedented experience of the open sea. For this reason, it was a defining part of Keinen’s experience of travelling to Korea. It seems to have accentuated the gulf between Korea and Japan that the sea represented.28 Keinen’s comment quoted above, that ‘nobility or lowliness changes not one single thing’, is also an example of the way that his world-view is fundamentally affected by a Buddhist vision of the cosmos. In this case, Buddhism helps him transcend worldly hierarchy. Buddhism is ever-present in the diary, and clearly distinguishes it from warriors’ writings, such as Yoshino nikki. For example, while Yoshino told us about the fierce defences awaiting the Japanese army, when Keinen arrives in Pusan he writes of a visit to a Buddhist temple there.29 This temple may have been Kōtokuji 高德寺 (K. Kodŏksa), established in the decade before 1592 by another monk of the same Jōdo Shinshū Pure Land school, Jōshin 淨信, who also trained at Honganji.30 Voluntarily crossing the sea to spread the faith, Jōshin represents a different image from that of the reluctant Keinen, who laments his age and the hardship of his travels. Yet Keinen was evidently inspired by his example, and confesses to have previously thought of

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following in the footsteps of those teachers of the Dharma (Buddhist doctrine) who moved across the ‘Three Lands’: Truly, truly were there so many wise and virtuous ones who travelled the Three Lands, to Japan, India, and China, spreading the Buddha’s teaching, that even an ordinary person [like myself], sometimes thought of crossing to see China and India.31 In a second entry for the same day, Keinen repeats this once-held desire, this time more specifically to enter and see China for himself.32 Yet now his circumstances have changed: Yet, I am now sixty and three years of age. With this old body, for which even the present is not certain, above all I wish to return to Japan (kichō) quickly if I am but allowed to return. There I want firstly to perform rites for all my brothers and confidants; my other great wish is to pay my respects to the Founder [i.e. Shinran 親鸞 (1173–1262)]. This is such a deep longing, that it is my greatest desire that I should be able to return even a moment sooner, and this desire is inextinguishable.33 The term he uses for return to Japan, kichō 歸朝, refers specifically to returning to Japan from abroad, as – especially in the context of the Three Lands – Japan was also known as honchō, lit. ‘this’ court or dynasty.34 These entries show how Buddhist tales of old broadened Keinen’s vision of the world. Long before he ever crossed the sea, Keinen dreamed of following ‘the wise men of Japan’ (日本の智 者), whom he believed had travelled not only to China but even to India, in search of Buddhist teaching.35 These excerpts are also representative of the pervasiveness of Buddhism in Keinen’s recording of his thoughts and feelings.

Witness to suffering Buddhism is the key influence that shifted Keinen’s attention to the suffering that he witnessed. This is a theme that permeates all his writing, but is most pronounced during the Japanese advance, soon after his arrival. Of his group’s landing at Noryang 露梁, on the 4th day of the eighth month, he writes: They rushed from the ships, not willing to fall behind, and competed to take things and kill people. These pillaging bodies formed a scene which one could hardly meet with one’s eyes.36 Yoshino also wrote of men competing with each other to be in the van, but while his description is praise of valour, Keinen is clearly disturbed by what he sees.37 Keinen’s account of killing a few days later is also reminiscent of Yoshino’s description of the slaughter after the 1592 landing, as they both use the metaphors of hell and its demons:

Descent into hell 113 They bind and take the children of the people of Korea and kill the parents, not letting them see them even once more. Their crying for one another is like the punishment of the demons of hell.38 As with almost all his observations of suffering, he follows this with a poem: So pitiable. Was it like this, the parting of the four birds? Even as the sorrow of parent and child, I see.39 What Keinen sees are soldiers set loose on the local population, free to vent their frustrations and desires, and to seek profit in looting and the capture of slaves.40 He describes this as mayhem around him, continuing for days, such that the hills and the fields burned, and there was human suffering in every direction he looked.41 The parallel Chōsen ki, and other writings such as Yoshino nikki, also describe widespread slaughter and capture for slavery. Keinen’s perspective is different because the soldiers’ behaviour has a different meaning for him in light of his firm Buddhist beliefs. Forever in his mind is the life to come, and the need to overcome base desires and spiritual ignorance. This is all the more so in the midst of the atrocities he is witnessing: watching those around him take what they please as their own bounty, Keinen finds he suffers from temptation himself, and immediately starts to worry about his prospects for rebirth. He reprimands himself in a poem: Shameful it is, to covet those things I see. Body with impure heart, and deluded mind.42

Victims and perpetrators Not willing to accommodate greed in his own thinking, Keinen was naturally repulsed by the soldiers who pillaged around him. While his earlier diary entries express shock at the behaviour he sees, in later entries his writing begins to betray thinly-veiled anger. By 12th day of the eleventh month, Ōta’s entourage was stationed in Ulsan, and preparations for the fortress’s defence were in full swing. Keinen wrote about the plight of the labourers he observed hard at work. Blacksmiths seem to make a particular impression on Keinen, but he describes an array of craftsmen, boatmen, and infantry, who are forced to toil into the night in hurried preparation. If they faltered through exhaustion, they could expect to be beaten. Those out collecting wood were sometimes killed by the enemy (Korean guerrillas),

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and even within the camp, at any time they might also face decapitation and public display of their head on trumped-up charges.43 Keinen rationalizes the cruel hardship of these people by understanding it as the manifestation of their karmic burden (toga 咎/科). He also takes the punishments meted out to them, such as being put in stocks or branded, as reminders of the terrible fate that can await one in hell.44 Of course, the soldiers consumed by greed and craving are among the ranks of those who Keinen expects will face torment in their next life. Looking on them he sees a lamentable and shocking failure to realize what awaits them.45 As the pace of the building of the castle is stepped up, such that work continues both day and night, Keinen’s patience and pity seems to run dry. A sharply critical voice appears as he blames the greed of the samurai: I could see that among all manner of things in the human realm there is nothing which is other than the sin of the Three Poisons [i.e. desire, anger, delusion]. From when they began as samurai, there was never anything apart from desiring objects and plans to forcefully take others’ treasure. Though the samurai, say they know not the morrow, the foolishness of a lustful heart leaves them not.46 Though he is criticizing the intensive building work, the concept of greed as a motivating force is revealed as the framework through which Keinen understands the whole effort in which the samurai are engaged. This is in fact biting, subversive criticism that undermines the glorifying warriors’ tales that formed the mainstream of writing on the war, and which portray the samurai as exponents of valour and endurance.

Axis mundi Such criticism endears Keinen to historians of a pacifist leaning, yet other elements of his thinking are more difficult for critics of the Japanese invasion to accept. The first of these is his positive view of Hideyoshi, who, in his merciless pursuit of ever more power and renown, ordered the invasion of Chosŏn. Standing in juxtaposition to his loathing of the greed and spiritual ignorance of the samurai around him, is Keinen’s admiration for and gratitude towards Hideyoshi as the ‘Lord of the Realm’ (天下さま). Just as Keinen is observing the terrible predicament of the conscripts, who are being pressed ever harder, an order for their release reportedly arrives from Hideyoshi: The main import of the [order carrying] the Vermillion Seal from the Lord of the Realm, is the long-awaited command to make careful preparation for

Descent into hell 115 the fair weather to return to Japan (kichō), and to board the ships taking care not to leave even one of the conscripts behind. How gratefully is this command received! All men rejoice. It is the Vermillion Seal of the Taikō who is concerned for the common people of all the provinces.47 Even if Hideyoshi had specified in an order that all should return, it seems unlikely that generosity of heart would have been his prime motivation. Keinen is projecting a surprising degree of compassion onto this ‘Lord of the Realm’. It cannot be coincidental that his positive conception of this lord forms a sharp contrast with his view of the samurai around him. On the same day he makes a second entry, which brings this comparison into relief: Thinking of the common people with sympathy in this way, shows how heartless it is that [the conscripts are] beaten and harried, left to starve, and not receiving their proper rations, chased into the mountains and abandoned. The cruel heart that makes into refuse the common people cared for by the Taikō.48 By most measures, it is Hideyoshi who is ultimately responsible for the invasion and all the suffering it incurs. At least from Keinen’s perspective, however, it is the samurai carrying out Hideyoshi’s orders, slaves to avarice, who are responsible for the cruel treatment of the conscripts. Here we see a mental separation of centre and periphery, which is instantly reminiscent of what has been (and is) done in other places and at other times. There is a striking similarity with Oh Hŭimun (discussed in the next chapter), for example. In 1598 Oh curses the Ming official posted to the Chosŏn capital for his blatant corruption, only to contrast him with the benevolent emperor Wanli, far removed in Beijing, whom he believes has always been sympathetic to the people of Chosŏn.49 While this is a common phenomenon, there are also factors specific to Keinen’s admiration for Hideyoshi worth considering. Ōkuwa Hitoshi argues that during the period of great turmoil in Japan that had preceded the invasion, the followers of the Jōdo Shinshū sect had been hoping for the appearance of a unifying leader, one who could save the suffering people. After the defeat of religious forces in the Ishiyama Honganji War (1570–1580), they could but put their faith in the secular unifying leader that emerged.50 There is room to doubt this assertion, given that as Ōkuwa states himself, owing to a paucity of source

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material, we actually know little about the beliefs of Jōdo Shinshū followers in the sixteenth century.51 Yet the pre-eminent position of the leader-figure in the sect’s thinking and ritual is reflected in the deference and great importance accorded to its founder Shinran by Keinen. We see this when Keinen explains one of his two foremost wishes before he dies is to pay respects to Shinran (presumably before his statue). It is possible some of this deference for a central authority-figure was transferred to the grand and distant Hideyoshi in Keinen’s mind. Another factor may have been Keinen’s esteem of the centre and disdain for the periphery, born of his study at the Honganji temple in Osaka. Two weeks earlier in his diary, when he describes his frustration at the company he is forced to keep, he links spiritual level and distance from the capital (miyako 都) in an intriguing way: Ah, if it were but someone whom one met on going up to the capital to the hall of the Dharma [i.e. Honganji], then how happy I would be! Is it because I have come to a barbarian (ebisu) land of ignorance such as this? The people I see and the people I hear all let greed arise as it appears in their heart, and know no rest in their hatred and anger.52 Keinen uses the word ebisu (‘barbarian’) on only this one occasion, so it is difficult to elucidate precisely what the term signifies for him. Here, though, we can see the word clearly juxtaposed to the capital (miyako) and Buddhist wisdom. It may seem unfair for Keinen to be judging the Korean peninsula in these terms, when he had no chance to communicate with or really observe people of culture or of Buddhist devotion during his time there. Yet this is perhaps to overrationalize Keinen’s response: his experience was of being thrust into a brutal environment dominated by base desires, which was ‘ten thousand miles’ from all peoples and places that he loved and respected. His complaint nevertheless betrays a potent notion of the superiority of centrality. It is also unlikely this is his feeling alone. Other monks from Honganji had been busying themselves establishing Kōtokuji in Pusan before the war, and the stated ambition of the chief monk behind this project, Jōshin 浄信, was no less than to spread the Dharma to China.53 Thus, within his school at least, there was a view that Korea and China required enlightenment – even if Buddhism was originally transmitted through those same lands. Implicit in both their on-going project and Keinen’s diary entry, is the idea that truth emanates from the centre: the home of enlightenment is the capital. It is worth noting that in the writings of the founder of the Jōdo Shinshū Pure Land school, Shinran, as well as the overseer of its revival, Rennyo 蓮如 (1415–1499), the word for capital that Keinen uses – miyako – is also used to refer to the Pure Land itself.54 In discussing Keinen’s positive view of the centre and of Hideyoshi more specifically, an important caveat is that Keinen does not express approval of the campaign as a whole, despite it being Hideyoshi’s initiative. His gratitude is for Hideyoshi’s supposed care for all the common people conscripted to join the

Descent into hell 117 campaign; his reverence seems to be for Hideyoshi’s supreme station. Keinen’s perspective on the war is intriguing precisely because he does not conceive of it in terms of politics or strategy. For him what is important is salvation from suffering, and what he sees while with the Japanese army are the ‘three poisons’ unbridled.55 When watching the frantic strengthening of defences at Ulsan, whether or not the defences will prove sufficient to withstand the oncoming Ming-Chosŏn assault does not seem to be on his mind. He is ambivalent towards the success of the very army of which he has been made a part. And yet, when allied forces finally surround Ulsan, his position as a disinterested observer is put to the test, as his fate is inextricably tied to that of the Japanese army.

Enemy at the gates After being disgusted by the brutality he sees around him at Ulsan, at the end of the eleventh month of 1597 Keinen retreated from observation of his surroundings to prayer and meditation, expounding on the teachings of Buddhist sutras.56 At this point he used his diary as a place to record what he would be telling listeners in Usuki, should he have been back at his temple. He was putting into practice what he wrote at the end of the tenth month: that though he had travelled far across the sea, in his heart he was still at his temple, before the Buddha.57 This self-consoling statement is in fact written later on the same day as his bitter complaint at his distance from enlightened company and surroundings quoted above. Keinen’s explaining the sutras without an audience must have provided much-needed solace during his long wait at Ulsan. Suddenly, however, the mundane world around him pressed in on Keinen with great immediacy. In the twelfth month, the ‘people of Kara’ (唐人)58 arrived in force, by which Keinen meant the Ming and Chosŏn armies (‘Kara’ being the Japanese term for China but also for the continent). Before long the prospect of their taking the fortress becomes very real: the combined MingChosŏn force under commander Yang Hao had encircled the Ulsan fortress. As much as Keinen may have despised the samurai around him, in a crowded fortress Keinen would have been very much exposed to the rumours and fears that circulated among the defenders. On the 23rd day of the twelfth month, he records tending to the injured Ōta Kazuyoshi, and this would have also been an opportunity to learn about the battle situation. The result is that into Keinen’s diary suddenly pour descriptions of battle: where the ‘people of Kara’ penetrated one of the gates, and how Ōta played a part in the defence.59 For the first time, ‘Nippon’ 日本 (Japan) and ‘Kara’ appear as opposing players in a narrative. Still more interestingly, Keinen begins to use the terms mikata 味方 (our side) and even warera 我等 (us), to refer to the Japanese in battle.60 While such terms are standard in a text like Yoshino nikki, in Chōsen hinikki prior to this point Keinen did not identify with the Japanese soldiers: on the contrary, he separated himself from them. Yet, at the very same time as identifying himself as on the Japanese side, Keinen steps apart from and above the conflict. Keinen’s response to the crisis of

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the siege is to transform fear into anticipation, by re-affirming his will to be reborn in the promised Pure Land, and his faith in that certain future. His otherworldly focus raises him above taking sides in a battle. From the perspective of where one is re-born, the denominations of Kara and Nippon seem irrelevant: Regardless of how many people there are of Nippon and Kara, even if there are many, there will probably be few cases where, at this moment, choosing their next life, they transform their body into one of power and freedom, and accepting the great joy of enlightenment, go wherever their heart takes them. ‘Oh, the poor people in this castle!’, I think when two of us face each other and meet eyes. Though there are tears in my heart, as expected I withhold it from my face. All the while I wait only for the next life, wondering each moment whether it will be now: As karma at death is each different, having obtained the next life, there is no return. Though I sing the song of impending death like this, waiting for the next life, the men of Kara retreat.61 Is it that the Time has not come? Is it that Nippon’s fortune is not yet spent?62 When it came to spiritual choice, karma, and re-birth, then which side one was on in the battle – the country to which one belonged – was irrelevant. This is in line with the sympathy Keinen shows for those who suffer, which does not discriminate between Korean civilians or Japanese conscripts. Yet regarding more earthly matters, Keinen goes as far as to elevate the significance of the outcome of the Siege of Ulsan to the level of Japan’s fortune (un 運) as a whole. This is not out of place if we consider how, since placed in the siege, the conflict came to mean for him a clash between Nippon and Kara. Yet it stands out in the context of his active disinterest in discussing strategic – or political-level – matters. In this moment Keinen reveals that he has a way of thinking about the war akin to that of Yoshino: the outcome of these battles reflects Japan’s fate as a country. The entry above is also not the only place where Keinen equates the army with Japan in the abstract: there is a still more striking instance before the siege ends, following an unexpected turn of events.

Land of the Gods Keinen describes how by this point those inside the fortress did not have food or even water to drink.63 Some sought to use the cover of night to make their way to a well outside, but Ming-Chosŏn forces were waiting for them. Then, just as

Descent into hell 119 the fortress of Ulsan’s fall to the ‘people of Kara’ seemed imminent, a miracle occurred: rain fell. While the attackers were cursing their bad luck, inside the castle the rain was received as no less than divine salvation. Two days after he wondered whether Japan’s fortune might not yet be exhausted, on 25th day of the twelfth month, Keinen responds to the miraculous arrival of water with a poem: Because Nippon is the Land of the Gods, a rain of mercy was sent down to water the people.64 This poem continues the idea that the disparate armies the western daimyō had brought to Ulsan combined to represent a unified Japan against its enemies, and that their victory or defeat reflected the fate of the country. Keinen invokes the narrative of Japan’s special protected status as a land favoured by the gods to explain the fall of rain as divine aid in Japan’s hour of need. As the rain came down, we can imagine that Keinen was not the only one thinking of Japan’s status as ‘Land of the Gods’. Rather, the opposite is more likely, that the exhausted but jubilant defenders in Ulsan pointed to the rain and exclaimed that the gods were on their side, and it was this that inspired Keinen’s poem. Either way, the poem’s significance lies in the fact that even Keinen – for whom the country and the war meant as little as it could to anyone involved – saw in the battle Japan’s fate, and in victory Japan’s most special status in the world.

Return When Ming–Chosŏn forces unexpectedly retreated from the castle walls and the beleaguered defenders were suddenly free to move, Keinen was told by his lord that he would be returning to Japan immediately. This was more than Keinen could have hoped for, but still he wrote that with his renewed faith, his longing for the next world was now greater than his longing for home in Usuki. Of course, travel was dangerous, and he observed that death may yet await him on the way home. In the end, Keinen did make it safely back to Anyōji (pictured in Figure 5.2). It was there that he would have organized on paper this tale of his journey, through hell-on-earth unto the gates of paradise, and back again.

Afterword Keinen was an intriguing and complex character. As well as showing a radically different perspective on the invasion to that of Yoshino, in the context of this book his worldview represents a unique sense of where the centre of the world lay. For the Chinese and Korean writers the political and cultural centre undoubtedly lay in China – Hwang Shin’s ‘Central Court’ (中朝), even if Xu Yihou

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Figure 5.2 Gate to Anyōji 安養寺, the temple where Keinen was abbot. Source: Photograph: author, 2013.

offered a slightly more multi-polar vision. Yoshino bitterly spoke of Japan as a tiny country in a vast world. We even saw that Hideyoshi planned to install both the Japanese emperor and himself in China, implying he accepted China’s centrality: he felt that whoever ruled China sat at the top of the world.65 Keinen, however, speaks with disgust at the peripheral, barbarian land he finds himself in on the Korean peninsula and longs to return to the centre – the capital, which for him is in Japan.

Descent into hell 121 Keinen’s critique of the samurai responsible for leading the slaughter, pillage, and slave-driving of the invasion cuts straight through simplistic accounts of the war as being made up of Japanese perpetrators and Korean victims. Rather, his observation of the cruelty of the samurai to Japanese forced labourers points to a deeper truth of the Japanese campaign, that it represented an extension of the violence and disappropriation that had ravaged Japan over the preceding decades.66 Power relations within Japan and the roles of non-combatants in the Japanese army must be a part of our how we understand this region-wide conflict. The Siege of Ulsan can be seen as a microcosm of the whole war in terms of the effect it had on Keinen. That is, in the way the conflict became about Japan and its fortunes. Stories of victory and defeat can be devoid of narratives of the country: plenty of ancient tales recount heroism and adventure where Fortune favours and rejects the individual or the house, not the land. Yet Keinen joined Yoshino and the other samurai writers in linking the victory and defeat of samurai houses on the battlefield with the story of Japan, her strength, her divine favour.67 The fact that not just the samurai authors but even Keinen – whose loyalties are expected to lie elsewhere, for whom this world was but a passing nightmare – even he came to see the campaign as an expression of Japan, illustrates the potency of this belief among the Japanese armies. Keinen’s individual experience underlines the influence this huge military operation would have had on the hundreds and thousands who took part in it. Written accounts of the invasion – mostly of the celebratory sōgunki (warrior’s memoir) variety – as well as the campaign’s representations in plays, would have widened this experience out to an even greater number of people – not to mention the oral recounting of experience that has left no trace. More than any of the military accounts of the war, the outlier that is Keinen’s account indicates the extent to which, through direct experience and its retelling, the war charged with real and immediate meaning the abstract notion of ‘Nippon’ 日本, Japan.

Notes 1 Hayashima Yūki 早島有毅, ‘Keinen no shōgai to bunkateki soyō’ 慶念の生涯と文 化的素養 (The Life and Cultural Background of Keinen), in ‘Chōsen hinikki’ o yomu 朝鮮日々記を読む (Kyōto: Hōzōkan 法蔵館, 2000), 141–2. 2 This is according to Anyōji sōen roku 安養寺莊嚴錄, a later history of the temple. Ibid. at 147. 3 Keinen is recorded as the founding abbot of the temple, though some sources disagree on this. Ibid. at 152. The current abbot identifies himself as a successor in an unbroken line beginning with Keinen. (Interview: Usuki, April 2013). 4 As he signs the diary giving his age (see Figure 5.1) and marks his birthday in his diary, we can calculate that Keinen was born in 1536. A later temple record gives his year of death as 1611. Ibid. at 146, 154. 5 He records performing this duty during the siege of Ulsan. Keinen 慶念, ‘Chōsen hinikki’ 朝鮮日々記 (Chosŏn Daily Diary), in ‘Chōsen hinikki’ o yomu 朝鮮日々記 を読む, ed. Chōsen hinikki o yomu kenkyūkai 朝鮮日々記研究会 (Kyōto: Hōzōkan 法蔵館, 2000), 72 (12.23).

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Hayashima Yūki, ‘Keinen no shōgai to bunkateki soyō’, 150–1. Keinen, ‘Chōsen hinikki’, 17 (8.14), 41 (11.5), 66 (12.11). Hayashima Yūki, ‘Keinen no shōgai to bunkateki soyō’, 145. Nakao Hiroshi 仲尾広, ‘Teiyū-keichō no eki senjō to Keinen’ 丁酉 · 慶長の役戦場

と慶念 (Keinen and the Battlefield of the Teiyū-Keichō Campaigns), in ‘Chōsen hinikki’ o yomu 朝鮮日々記を読む (Kyōto: Hōzōkan 法蔵館, 2000), 172. 10 George Elison, ‘The Priest Keinen and His Account of the Campaign in Korea, 1597–1598: An Introduction’, in Nihon kyōiku-shi ronsō: Motoyama Yukihiko kyōju taikan kinen ronbunshū 日本教育史論叢：本山幸彦教授退官記念論文集, ed. Motoyama Yukihiko kyōju taikan kinen ronbunshū henshū iinkai 本山幸彦教授退官 記念論文集編集委員会 (Kyoto: Shibunkaku shuppan 思文閣出版, 1988), 25–41. 11 Nakao Hiroshi, ‘Teiyū-keichō no eki senjō to Keinen’, 177. 12 Ibid. 13 Nakao Hiroshi looks at the two accounts together, using Chōsen ki’s greater detail of objective circumstances to better place Keinen’s account. Ibid. 14 Hayashima Yūki, ‘Keinen no shōgai to bunkateki soyō’, 144. 15 Ibid. at 144–145. 16 Elison, ‘The Priest Keinen and His Account of the Campaign in Korea, 1597–1598: An Introduction’. 17 Okamura Kishi 岡村喜史, ‘ “Chōsen hinikki” no shohon’ 朝鮮日々記の諸本 (Versions of Chōsen Hinikki), in ‘Chōsen hinikki’ o yomu 朝鮮日々記を読む (Kyōto: Hōzōkan 法蔵館, 2000), 140. 18 Ibid. at 139–140. 19 Ibid. at 140. Of the two manuscripts at Anyōji, one is considered to be an original (hereafter, Manuscript A), whereas the second is a copy thought to have been made in 1728 (hereafter, Manuscript B). The cover of Manuscript A is missing, so it is on Manuscript B that we read the signature ‘Keinen, Abbot of Anyōji, sixty-two yearsof-age’. Otherwise, there are no significant differences between them in terms of the text. Leading the research on these manuscripts, Okamura Kishi uses its physical characteristics, such as size and consistency of ink, to argue that Manuscript A would not have been written while Keinen was travelling. Rather, it was a clean copy made afterwards, yet most likely at the beginning of the seventeenth century, considering the paper used and calligraphic style. Okamura’s conclusion is that while this cannot be proved conclusively, we may take Manuscript A to be Keinen’s own hand, including the corrections made to the text. It is worth pointing out that this may be wishful thinking on the part of the historian, as it is equally likely to be an early copy by another hand. It is not clear who assigned the title ‘Chōsen hinikki’ to the text; within the diary the country name Chōsen is not used, ‘Kōrai’ (K.: Koryŏ) being used in its place. The version of the text used here is the carefully annotated version produced by the Chōsen hinikki o yomu kenkyūkai (Research Society for the Reading of Chōsen hinikki), which is based on the manuscripts held at Anyōji. Chōsen hinikki o yomu kenkyūkai 朝鮮日々記研究会, ed., ‘Chōsen hinikki’ o yomu 朝鮮日々記を読む (Reading Chōsen Hinikki) (Kyōto: Hōzōkan 法蔵館, 2000). 20 Quoted in editorial note in Ibid. at 104. 21「城の内の人数男女残りなくうちすて, いけ取物ハなし」 Keinen, ‘Chōsen hinikki’, 17 (8.16). 22 In the first phrase, musan 無慚 refers to the attackers knowing no shame despite committing evil. 「むさんやな 知らぬうき世の ならひとて 男女老少 死してうせけ り」 Ibid. at 18 (8.16). 23 Nakao Hiroshi, ‘Teiyū-keichō no eki senjō to Keinen’, 186. 24 For a full account of the dramatic siege of Ulsan, see Kenneth M. Swope, ‘War and Remembrance: Yang Hao and the Siege of Ulsan of 1598’, Journal of Asian History 42, no. 2 (2008): 165–195.

Descent into hell 123 25「残しおく 其たらちねの 妻や子の なけきをおもふ かせそ身にしむ」 Keinen, ‘Chōsen hinikki’, 7 (6.24). It was (and still is) common for Buddhist monks to marry in Japan, which was not the case in China and Korea. 26「万里の波渡をしのき、爰にかうらいまておのおの御出陣も、たゝ一身をうき 世を御すこし候ハんとのため、たかきもいやしきもさらにかわる事ハひとつ もなし」 Ibid. at 48 (11.18). 27「白雲の八重のしほ路を。はる〜と異國たいぢに」 Hanawa Hokiichi 塙保己一, Zoku Gunsho ruijū 續群書類從 (Classified Collection of Books Continued), vol. 20 下(卷591) (Tokyo: Zoku gunsho ruijū kansei kai 續群書類從完成会, 1923), 379a; Ban Nobutomo 伴信友, ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’ 中外經緯傳草稿 (Draft Account of Matters Domestic and Foreign), in Ban Nobutomo zenshū 伴信友全集, vol. 3 (Tokyo: Kokusho kankōkai 國書刊行会, 1907), 347b. 28 Two pronunciations of the proper noun referring to Japan (日本) continue to be used in standard Japanese today: Nippon and Nihon. For simplicity, only ‘Nippon’ is used here. This variation is chosen as it fits the metre of Keinen’s poetry, implying he probably pronounced the word this way. It is fair to talk of the separation as being between ‘Kōrai’ on one side of the sea and ‘Nippon’ on the other, because these are the terms used by Keinen. Having left his family amid uncertainty, and facing the hardship of military expedition, Keinen’s homesickness naturally continued to be a feature of his time in Korea, and appears many times in his writing. At these points, he uses ‘Nippon’ to refer to the place where his home is. Near the beginning of the tenth month, he worries about the temple and his family when news comes that a typhoon had struck, and here again the location of the typhoon is simply ‘Nippon’. Keinen, ‘Chōsen hinikki’, 32 (10.9). 29 Ibid. at 9 (7.11). 30 Jōshin was a former vassal of Oda Nobunaga, who is said to have crossed to Pusan in 1585, returning to Japan immediately before the 1592 invasion. After the war Kōtokuji was re-established in Karatsu 唐津, and still exists today. Yun Kiyŏp 尹紀 燁, ‘Kaehwagi Ilbon pulgyo ui p’ogyo yangsang kwa ch’u’i’ 개화기（開化期）일 본불교의 포교 양상과 추이 (Aspects and Development of the Propagation of Japanese Buddhism in the Period of Enlightenment), Wŏnbulgyo sasang kwa chunggyo munhwa 원불교사상과 중교문화 no. 54 (2012): 260. 31「けに〜日本 · 天竺 · 大唐に三国をめくり〜たまひて、仏法をひろめたまひし聖 人賢人も、むかしハあまたましけれハ、たとい凡下なり共, 大唐 · 天竺まても 渡りて見はやと、有る時ハおもひし也」Keinen, ‘Chōsen hinikki’, 68–9 (12.16). 32 Ibid. at 68 (12.16). 33「しかれ共、わかよはひハ六十三なり、いまをも知られる老か身二、まつまつ歸 朝させられんならハ、はやく歸朝して、御同行知音の人々にも今すこしなり とも法儀をすすめ申たき一つ、又ハ一たひ御開山さまへ御礼を申たき念願計 に、雨山ののそミなりけれハ、一時片時もいそき歸朝の大望ハつくしかたく て也」 Ibid. at 69–70 (12.16). 34 The terms honchō, Kara, and Tenjiku are central to the structure of the famous Buddhist collection of tales Konjaku monogatari shū. See Maeda Masayuki 前田雅之, Konjaku monogatari shū no sekai kōsō 今昔物語集の世界構想 (Imagining the World in ‘Anthology of Tales from the Past’) (Tokyo: Kasama shoin 笠間書院, 1999), esp. 112–127. 35 As is pointed out in an editorial note in the annotated edition used here, it is not clear to whom Keinen refers, as there is no record of a Japanese monk travelling to India. Keinen, ‘Chōsen hinikki’, 68. 36「はやはや船より我も人もおとらしまけしとて物をとり人をころし、 うはひあ へり躰、 なか〜目もあてられぬ氣色なり」 Ibid. at 14 (8.4). 37 For Yoshino’s descriptions of warriors rushing enthusiastically into battle, see: Zoku Gunsho ruijū, 20下(卷591):379b; ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’, 348a.

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38「かうらい人子共をハからめとり、おやをはうちきり、二たひとみせす、たか ひのなけきハさなから獄率のせめ成りと也」 Keinen, ‘Chōsen hinikki’, 15 (8.8). 39 The mention of birds is a literary allusion to a story about a mother parted from her offspring; see Chōsen hinikki o yomu kenkyūkai, ‘Chōsen hinikki’ o yomu, 104. Note that the line breaks used in the translation of this and other poems are employed to recreate a poetic effect, but are not always faithful to the rhythm or (for grammatical reasons) the order of the original text. 「あわれなり してふのわかれ 是かとよ お や子のなけき 見るにつけても」Ibid. 40 The invasion presented huge opportunities for merchants in both goods and people, and they followed the Japanese army as it moved. Keinen describes slave traders driving their ‘stock’ at Ulsan: Keinen, ‘Chōsen hinikki’, 49 (11.19). For a study of slave capture in the war, see Naitō Shunpo 内藤雋輔, Bunroku-Keichō no eki ni okeru hirojin no kenkyū 文禄 · 慶長の役における被擄人の研究 (Research on Abductees in the Bunroku-Keichō Campaign) (Tōkyō: Tōkyō daigaku 東京大学, 1976). 41 Keinen, ‘Chōsen hinikki’, 14–15. 42「はつかしや 見る物ことに ほしかりて 心すまさる 妄念の身や」 Ibid. at 15 (8.7). 43 Ibid. at 44–45 (11.11–12). 44 Ibid. at 44–45 (11.12–16). 45 He expresses his shock and distaste using the term ‘akimashiki’, which is given dedicated study by Ōkuwa Hitoshi. See Ōkuwa Hitoshi 大桑斉, ‘Zenchishiki to “asamashi” no shisō’ 善知識と「あさまし」の思想 (Kalyān. a-Mittatā and ‘asamashi’ Thinking), in ‘Chōsen hinikki’ o yomu 朝鮮日々記を読む (Kyōto: Hōzōkan 法蔵館, 2000), 247–269. 46「とかくことことく人界の有さまハ三毒のつミよりほかハ、へつのなす事とて ハなしと見えたり、侍をはしめて物をほしかり、むりに人の財宝をうはひと らんとのたくミよりほかハ、子細ハさらさらなかりしなり 侍の あすをしらす と のたまへと とんよくしんの くちハはなれす」 Keinen, ‘Chōsen hinikki’, 46 (11.13). 47 Taikō was Hideyoshi’s official title at this time. 「天下さまよりの御朱印のおもむ きは、歸朝の日よりをよくよくしらへ、人夫一人もとりのこし候ハぬやうに 念を入候て、船をのり候へとのおほつかハし候事なり、さてもさてもかたし けなき御定とて諸人よろこひ候也 國々の 百性ともを 大こうの おほしめさる る 御朱印そかし」 Keinen, ‘Chōsen hinikki’, 47 (11.17). 48「かくのことくこそ百性をハふひんにおほしめし候に、 うちさいなミ、 かつ えほうたひに、ふちかたハしかしかともたまわらす、山におひやりすて物に ハ、いかかなさけなき事と見へまいらせて候也 大こうに おもひたまひし 百 性を すて物にする つらき心や」 Ibid. 49 Oh Hŭimun 吳希文, ‘Swaemi rok’ 鎖尾錄 (Record of a Refugee), 乙亥(1595) 8.28, Jangseogak Royal Archives, http://yoksa.aks.ac.kr. 50 Ōkuwa Hitoshi, ‘Zenchishiki to “asamashi” no shisō’, 267–268. 51 Ibid. at 267. 52「さてもミやこへのほり仏法の庭にましる物ならハ、いかはかりもうれしくお もひ侍らんに、かやうのあさましけなるゑひすの国へハ来りけるカ、ミル人も きく人もとんよくを心のままにおこし、しん意いかりはかりにてあけくれをも しらす」 Keinen, ‘Chōsen hinikki’, 38 (10.29). 53 See Kusano Kenshi 草野顕之, ‘Honganji kyōdan no Chōsen shinshutsu’ 本願寺教団 の朝鮮進出 (The Advance of the Honganji Religious Organization into Chosŏn), in ‘Chōsen hinikki’ o yomu 朝鮮日々記を読む (Kyōto: Hōzōkan 法蔵館, 2000), 351–382. 54 Chōsen hinikki o yomu kenkyūkai, ‘Chōsen hinikki’ o yomu, 105. 55 The Buddhist concept of the ‘three poisons’ can be variously translated, but roughly refer to desire, anger, and delusion. Ibid. at 38. 56 Keinen, ‘Chōsen hinikki’, 50–60 (11.21–11.29).

Descent into hell 125 57 Ibid. at 39 (10.29). 58 The word 唐人 could also be read Tōjin, however on some occasions Keinen spells the word part phonetically as から人, so it is read here as ‘Karabito’. 59 Keinen, ‘Chōsen hinikki’, 72–73 (12.23). 60 Ibid. at 72–73 (12.23–12.24). 61 The final retreat is not until several days later, so Keinen is probably referring to the attackers withdrawing to their camp after their assault that day. 62「日本からの人々かいかほとおおくとも、おそらく只今往生をとけ申たらハ、神 通自在ニ身を變し、大快樂をうけて、心のままにいかなる所へもかけハん事 ハ、人おおく共まれならんそあら不便の此城中の物共やと、二人なからかほを 見あわせて、心ハかりは涙なれ共、さすかに面にハ出さす、いまやいまやと往 生をまち申はかりの内に 死の緣ハ まちまちなれハ 即徳の 往生やかて 不退てん なり かやうに臨終のうたを詠して往生をまち候へ共、時尅も来らす候や、日本 の御うんもつきす候や、から人も引入候なり」 Keinen, ‘Chōsen hinikki’, 74–5 (12.23). 63 Ibid. at 75 (12.24). Chōsen ki also describes the lack of food and water at Ulsan in great detail. See Chōsen hinikki o yomu kenkyūkai, ‘Chōsen hinikki’ o yomu, 118. 64「日本ハ 神國なれハ あはれミの あめをふらして 人をうるほす」 Keinen, ‘Chōsen hinikki’, 76 (12.25). 65 Atobe has made the same point. Atobe Makoto 跡部信, ‘Toyotomi seiken ki no taigai kankei to chitsujokan’ 豊臣政権期の対外関係と秩序観 (Foreign Relations and View of the World Order during the Toyotomi Government Period) 585 (2011 г.): 62–3. 66 Ōkuwa Hitoshi, ‘Zenchishiki to “asamashi” no shisō’, 248. 67 The framing of the invasion in terms of Japan as Land of the Gods in other contemporary sources is discussed in Chapter 2.

References Atobe Makoto 跡部信. ‘Toyotomi seiken ki no taigai kankei to chitsujokan’ 豊臣政権期 の対外関係と秩序観 (Foreign Relations and View of the World Order during the Toyotomi Government Period) 585 (2011): 56−82. Ban Nobutomo 伴信友. ‘Chūgai keii den sōkō’ 中外經緯傳草稿 (Draft Account of Matters Domestic and Foreign). In Ban Nobutomo zenshū 伴信友全集, Vol. 3. Tokyo: Kokusho kankōkai 國書刊行会. 1907–1909. Elison, George. ‘The Priest Keinen and His Account of the Campaign in Korea, 1597–1598: An Introduction’. In Nihon kyōiku-shi ronsō: Motoyama Yukihiko kyōju taikan kinen ronbunshū 日本教育史論叢: 本山幸彦教授退官記念論文集, edited by Motoyama Yukihiko kyōju taikan kinen ronbunshū henshū iinkai, 25–41. Kyoto: Shibunkaku shuppan 思文閣出版. 1988. Hanawa Hokiichi 塙保己一. Zoku Gunsho ruijū 續群書類從 (Classified Collection of Books Continued). Vol. 20 下 (卷 591). Tokyo: Zoku gunsho ruijū kansei kai 續群書 類從完成会. 1923. Hayashima Yūki 早島有毅. ‘Keinen no shōgai to bunkateki soyō’ 慶念の生涯と文化的 素養. In ‘Chōsen hinikki’ o yomu 朝鮮日々記を読む, 141–162. Kyoto: Hōzōkan 法蔵 館. 2000. Keinen. ‘Chōsen hinikki’ 朝鮮日々記. In ‘Chōsen hinikki’ o yomu 朝鮮日々記を読む, edited by Chōsen hinikki o yomu kenkyūkai, 3–93. Kyoto: Hōzōkan 法蔵館. 2000. Kusano Kenshi 草野顕之. ‘Honganji kyōdan no Chōsen shinshutsu’ 本願寺教団の朝鮮 進出. In ‘Chōsen hinikki’ o yomu 朝鮮日々記を読む, 351–382. Kyoto: Hōzōkan 法蔵 館. 2000.

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Maeda Masayuki 前田雅之. Konjaku monogatari shū no sekai kōsō 今昔物語集の世界 構想 (Imagining the World in ‘Anthology of Tales from the Past’). Tokyo: Kasama shoin 笠間書院. 1999. Naitō Shunpo 内藤雋輔. Bunroku-Keichō no eki ni okeru hirojin no kenkyū 文禄 · 慶長 の役における被擄人の研究 (Research on Abductees in the Bunroku-Keichō Campaign). Tokyo: Tōkyō daigaku 東京大学. 1976. Nakao Hiroshi 仲尾広. ‘Teiyū-keichō no eki senjō to Keinen’ 丁酉 · 慶長の役戦場と慶 念. In ‘Chōsen hinikki’ o yomu 朝鮮日々記を読む, 163–210. Kyoto: Hōzōkan 法蔵 館. 2000. Okamura Kishi 岡村喜史. ‘“Chōsen hinikki” no shohon’ 朝鮮日々記の諸本. In ‘Chōsen hinikki’ o yomu 朝鮮日々記を読む, 131–140. Kyoto: Hōzōkan 法蔵館. 2000. Ōkuwa Hitoshi 大桑斉. ‘Zenchishiki to “asamashi” no shisō’ 善知識と「あさまし」の 思想. In ‘Chōsen hinikki’ o yomu 朝鮮日々記を読む, 247–269. Kyoto: Hōzōkan 法蔵 館. 2000. Swope, Kenneth M. ‘War and Remembrance: Yang Hao and the Siege of Ulsan of 1598’. Journal of Asian History 42, no. 2 (2008): 165–195. Yun Kiyŏp. ‘Kaehwagi Ilbon pulgyo ui p’ogyo yangsang kwa ch’u’i’ 개화기(開化期) 일 본불교의 포교 양상과 추이 (Aspects and Development of the Propagation of Japanese Buddhism in the Period of Enlightenment). Wŏnbulgyo sasang kwa chunggyo munhwa 원불교사상과 중교문화, no. 54 (2012 г.): 255–287.

6

A world connected

Oh Hŭimun, one among many

When we last left Oh Hŭimun 吳希文 (1539–1613), his desire to see Chosŏn’s humiliation avenged had given way to simply hoping that the Ming–Chosŏn mission to Japan would bring the war to an end. People in Chosŏn were on edge as they waited for news, and false alarms had already prompted people to cut their crops and start to flee even before the news of real danger came.1 Everyone remembered the first invasion of 1592, when the Japanese advanced all the way up the country leaving devastation in their wake, and they feared the same would happen again. Oh Hŭimun’s experience in 1597 was quite different from that of 1592, because he and his family had followed Oh’s eldest son Yun’gyŏm 允謙 (1559–1636) to P’yŏnggang 平康 in Kangwŏn 江原 province (just inside con­ temporary North Korea; see Map 6.1). Hidden in a secluded valley, they were, in Oh Hŭimun’s words, ‘as if in another country’, receiving much less news than they had done when in the southwest.2 Yet they would not regret their move: the Japanese this time succeeded in winning sea access to the western coast, helping them advance over land into the south-west. Oh being saved by his timely move north makes us appreciate just how remarkable it is that we have Oh’s diary: it was very narrowly indeed that he managed to survive the disease, starvation, and violence that claimed so many of his friends and relatives. In this chapter we will follow Oh’s account in Swaemi rok 瑣尾錄 as the Japanese withdraw and the war finally comes to an end. Meanwhile, we will take the chance to look in more depth at three themes that Oh’s account shows played a major role in the lives of the Chosŏn population during the war. The first of these is class. In P’yŏnggang, Oh was surrounded by commoners and seems to have inter­ acted with them more, but throughout Oh’s diary, we see that class was a defining element of how people experienced the war, and often determined whether they lived or died. The second theme is the way in which people around the country were connected in a constantly-flowing exchange of information, and Oh remained deeply attached to the wider fate of the country even once relatively isolated. The third and final theme is China. As we saw in the previous chapter, Oh Hŭimun had a mixed and changing view of the Chinese. The last few years of his diary reveal how he rationalized the good and bad of China, and how the Ming and Chosŏn officials tried to present their countries to each other’s populations.

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Map 6.1 Map showing Japanese and Ming Chinese military movements in 1597 and the location of P’yŏnggang in Chosŏn’s Kangwŏn province, where Oh Hŭimun and his family sought refuge.

1597, the second invasion In 1595, Oh Yun’gyŏm had succeeded in obtaining a post as a local official in P’yŏnggang, Kangwŏn province. Once he was established there, in the spring of 1597, Oh Hŭimun takes his family to live in a secluded valley in P’yŏnggang.3 This would prove to be a life-saving move, made just in time. In the third month of 1597, when the second invasion was expected but had not yet arrived, Yun’gyŏm successfully passed the Palace Examination

A world connected 129 (chŏnsi 殿試): the highest civil service examination, personally overseen by the king. As is to be expected, Oh Hŭimun was overwhelmed with pride and joy, describing how the government heralds galloped up to their house blowing trum­ pets.4 ‘Having promised his life to his country […] from now on he is no longer my son’, proclaimed Oh.5 Substantial gifts of land and seventeen slaves from Yun’gyŏm’s wife’s (obviously wealthy) family was another sign that – provided they survived the war – the Oh family’s days of poverty were behind them. Yet Oh Hŭimun’s happiness was tainted with sorrow and his joy turned to tears as he thought of his youngest daughter. After a long period of illness, ‘Tana’ 端兒 had died on the family’s route north to safety.6 The heart-wrenching sorrow of Hŭimun and his wife at the loss of their youngest child seems to have surpassed that of all the other tragedies of the war. Oh Hŭimun’s confiding of this sorrow and other personal emotions in his diary suggest that by this point it may no longer have been something he intended to share casually, but an increasingly intimate memoir. The invasion of 1592 had caught Chosŏn largely unprepared, and it was 1593 before substantial Ming reinforcements arrived. In 1597, both Chosŏn and the Ming were expecting Japanese attack. By the seventh month of 1597, Oh Hŭimun had heard that the new Ming commander Liu Ting 劉綎 (1558–1619) was already in Liaodong with more than 25,000 troops and Ma Gui 麻貴 (1543–1607) had reached the Chosŏn capital with 7,000 men. The size of the forces reassured Oh that the Ming was truly intent on forcing the Japanese out of Chosŏn, but he was also very concerned as to how Chosŏn could possibly support such an army: there simply was not enough food. Oh had spent the last three or four years watching his son-in-law Shin Ŭnggu 申應榘 and now his son Yun’gyŏm rush off to entertain ‘Tang’ officials. (In Chosŏn as in Japan, China was still habitually referred to as the Tang 唐, despite that dynasty having ended in the tenth century.) Oh knew that the movement of Chinese troops through the country would also wreak havoc: his extended family had only the previous month had to move to another town after ‘Tang’ soldiers forcibly occupied their home.7 An even more disturbing report about the Chinese presence in Chosŏn reached Oh around the same time. Citing an imperial edict, Oh reports word that the Celestial Court (天朝, i.e. the Ming) would install Chinese officials in Chosŏn. Ming officials had had responsibilities in Chosŏn during the first inva­ sion, but Oh perceived the latest appointments as a much more severe infringe­ ment on Chosŏn sovereignty: ‘our country’ was to be controlled by ‘people of the Tang’ and the king of Chosŏn would maintain authority in name only. Oh heard the plan was to impose ‘Han’ rule in Chosŏn (where Han comes from the Han 漢 dynasty, which ruled in China between 202 bce and 220 ce).8 As we saw during the first invasion, it was quite true that so long as the Ming military was in Chosŏn, native officials had little room to contest Ming officials’ commands. Now, as the Ming established full command and control ahead of the renewed campaign, Oh expressed his fear as a Chosŏn subject of what this implied for Chosŏn sovereignty. As the Japanese monk Genso had so pointedly explained the preceding year, however, Chosŏn was not in a position to argue.9

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A critical turning point in the second invasion came at its outset. On the 29th day of the seventh month, Oh heard in a letter from his brother that the Chosŏn naval forces had suffered a bad defeat at Hansan 閑山, and Admiral Wŏn Kyun 元均, who had replaced Yi Sunshin when the latter became a victim of factional politics, had been killed. Oh immediately understood the shocking implication of this: the whole southwest of the country, which Yi Sunshin had effectively defended in 1592–1593, was now exposed.10 He heard that with Chinese officials in power in the capital, even Chosŏn officials were finding it difficult to ascertain the latest information, but the fear was that little now stood in the way of the Japanese, as the bulk of the Ming forces under commander Yang Hao 楊鎬 (d. 1629) had yet to arrive in the capital. Before long, Oh hears from Yun’gyŏm of the fall of the strategic stronghold of Namwŏn 南原, and the loss of the MingChosŏn garrison there.11 Through the reports Oh receives we see how panic took hold. Chŏnju 全州, which Oh had visited in safety during the first invasion, was abandoned after the fall of Namwŏn, with Chosŏn soldiers and civilians reportedly escaping by killing the Ming soldiers who were guarding the city gates. He heard that many in the capital had fled or tried to flee, with Chinese officers preventing the queen from doing the same. The flow of prominent refugees was only stopped with the threat that commander Yang Hao, who was soon to arrive, took a strict line on flight, and the reassurance of a Chinese fleet arriving in Tangjin 唐津 (literally, ‘Chinese Landing’). While Chinese reinforcements calmed nerves in the capital, Oh hears of the unrestrained Japanese destruction and pillaging which had shocked Keinen: Imch’ŏn 林川, his family’s home until earlier that year, was in flames.12

Joined in communication As we see from his recording of news from around the country, Oh could not let go of worries about the course of the war, despite having found relative safety in P’yŏnggang. One way Oh kept abreast of wider events was through correspondence. The extremities of war at no point severed the endless flow of letters. At the begin­ ning of the war he was able to send private letters along with official post, but when this was not possible, sending letters with slaves or friends who were trav­ elling was the normal method.13 Oh corresponded with men and women, his sisters and eighty-year-old mother also writing letters. While only members of the aristocracy (yangban 兩班) succeeded in recording news for posterity, at the time we see common people were equally involved in sharing the latest military and political developments. For example, it was a commoner neighbour who explained to Oh the progress of the Ming-Chosŏn siege of Ulsan, because he had just returned from military service there.14 Swaemi rok also demonstrates that women, too, were integral to the wide communication networks operating in Chosŏn, and that their shared literacy was key to this. Not only were all female members of Oh’s wider family literate at

A world connected 131 least in vernacular Korean, but in mourning his fifteen-year-old daughter Tana’s death, Oh incidentally reveals that she was also literate in Chinese script.15 Though he gives no indication of Tana’s level of ability, this indicates that the female half of the elite population was not excluded from the Chinese literary context which informed Oh Hŭimun and his peers’ discussions of national events. The marriage of Oh’s eldest daughter recounted in the previous chapter also gives us unexpected insight into how women fitted into the world of political news and historical contextualization in which Oh lived and wrote his diary. Almost immediately after the wedding the bride appeared to have been bored (her husband busy with duties, and chores probably performed by official slaves) and asked for something to read. It is what she requested that is revealing: a ver­ nacular Korean (Hangŭl) version of Hanch’o yŏn’ŭi 漢楚演義, a dramatized retelling of the war between the Han and Chu power-bases to inherit control of the Qin empire (221–206 bce) after its collapse. Oh Hŭimun had his second daughter make a copy of the text they had at home.16 Oh’s daughters’ reading of these his­ tories demonstrates that, regardless of their knowledge of literary Chinese, they learned about the historical Chinese world through vernacular Korean texts. This was the cultural context through which Oh Hŭimun interpreted the war: in his diary he directly compares Chosŏn’s fate to that of the ancient state of Chu 楚, about which we see his daughter was reading.17 That such stories were re-told and enjoyed in the vernacular also puts paid to the too-often held assumption of a split between the cultural world occupied by elite, educated men and the rest of society. Not only did the elite women we see through Oh’s diary share the same cultural reference points, but given that a vernacular edition had been established it is probable that storytellers were recounting these popular Chinese tales for illiterate audiences.

Separated by class Despite managing to continue to receive a fair amount of news by correspond­ ence, Oh’s life in P’yŏnggang was very different to his previous life in the south­ west. He was relying increasingly on letters from family for updates because there were far fewer opportunities to meet friends and acquaintances of his own class. As a result, interactions with his commoner neighbours began to occupy more of his diary. From commoners (sang’in 常人), Oh derived some curious amusement. In P’yŏnggang he joined some of the local festivities, and in his diary he chuckled to himself at the singing and dancing of the people there. Class distinction was deeply engrained not only in social etiquette but even in the language Oh uses. One of the events Oh attends is a small feast held to mark the anniversary of a villager’s father’s death. Oh describes this as a sa’il 死日 (lit. ‘death day’) instead of ki’il 忌日 (‘taboo day’).18 The only other time he uses ‘death day’ is when talking about slaves; whereas he uses the more polite ‘taboo day’ in all cases involving nobles.19

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Just how important the line demarcating class was for Oh is illustrated in a diary entry from the previous year. Oh had a conversation with one man only to discover he had not realized that man’s true class status. Having assumed the man to be a fellow gentleman (yangban), Oh discovered to his horror that he was the son of a musician – in fact, he had performed at banquets Oh had attended. It is perhaps difficult for us to understand Oh’s acute sense of embarrassment, which quickly turned to rage, upon realizing that he had observed the etiquette of equals (in sitting facing each other and in the language they used) with a man of lower status than himself.20 During Oh Hŭimun’s time surrounded by commoners in P’yŏnggang his diary also shows us that he sympathized and genuinely bonded with his neighbours, however. He invited them as guests for specially prepared tojebi (now ‘sujebi’: rough-cut noodles), and evidently appreciated their company.21 He also employed his networks to help his neighbours: for example, lobbying on their behalf when they were put in the impossible situation of receiving two conflict­ ing conscription summonses.22 He was upset when his commoner friend’s uncle was imprisoned because his friend had not appeared for duty, and on hearing a story of a man who received three conscription notices on one day and promptly hung himself.23 Oh’s sympathy also extended to slaves, despite his relationship with many of his slaves being very difficult.24 When performing rites for ancestors, out of pity Oh included those former slaves who had no descendants – such as Makjŏng 莫 丁.25 He felt deep affection for the female slaves that had acted as nannies for him or with whom he grew up together.26 He also actively used his official con­ nections to bring the law to the defence of his slaves in their personal disputes.27 Oh’s sympathy transcending class is most striking when he imagines the people of Chosŏn as a whole. Throughout his commentary on the war, as he wondered what would happen next, the long-suffering people of Chosŏn were a recurring subject of Oh’s writing, with himself as part of that group. Even when in relative comfort, Oh was a refugee, and he teetered on the edge of the abyss together with the rest of the population. The following diary entry from shortly after the second invasion began is a good example of how Oh’s laments for the people of Chosŏn intertwined with his fears for his own safety: 賊已陷南原城 […] 云 未知實否 若然則日氣漸寒 陪老母率病妻 又且上 下皆無襦衣 而避入深山窮谷 必有凍餓之患 吾不知死所矣 徒自付之天 而已 六載干戈 生民盡瘁 天未悔禍 兇鋒又起 兩湖遺氓 亦將入塗炭之中 皇天仁愛下民 而豈可使朝鮮百萬蒼生 盡歸於憔爛而無遺乎 They say the brigands28 have taken the city of Namwŏn … I know not whether this is true. If it is, then with the days gradually turning colder, taking my mother and sick wife – and with family and slaves alike having no padded clothes – to take refuge deep in the mountains, we will surely freeze and starve. We know not where we will die! We can but entrust our fates to Heaven.

A world connected 133 After six years of fighting, the people are completely exhausted. Heaven repents not this calamity, and the forces of violence rise again. The surviv­ ing people of [the southwest] are also set to descend into devastation. Impe­ rial Heaven is benevolent to the people, so how can it let all the million lives of Chosŏn be wasted and burned till there are none left?29 Oh’s distress for the people of Chosŏn is joined with the most real kind of fear for his and his family’s survival. In the face of this greatest of calamities, heretofore impermeable class divisions did not prevent a sense of common victimhood.

1597–1598, end game The autumn of 1597 saw a decisive turn in the tide of the war. The Japanese had again made rapid gains in the first few weeks after their arrival, but once Ming commander Yang Hao arrived with the full contingent of the Chinese army, the Japanese appeared to be no match for the allies’ land and naval forces. A series of victories pushed the Japanese south, and Oh was elated when news of deci­ sive defeats of the Japanese arrived after years of waiting: ‘how great is the whole country’s jubilation!’.30 As their delivering saviour, Yang Hao quickly attained hero status among people in Chosŏn: the contrast of his determined – and successful – attack with the abortive offensives of Li Rusong and the other commanders in 1593 could not have been starker. Pitted against the allies’ continued advance was the shortage of food that Oh had predicted. Oh wrote about a local official who was imprisoned for not pro­ viding sufficient supplies for the Chinese troops, and commented that the country was managing until the Japanese ravaged the agriculturally productive southwest and the Chinese arrived in such numbers.31 Nevertheless, Oh heard Ming com­ manders Yang Hao and Ma Gui were going south for a major offensive.32 This attack turns out to be the same siege of Ulsan 蔚山 which we saw from the monk Keinen’s point of view. Oh exclaimed that the country’s very survival rested on this one offensive, and imagined once again the whole country’s jubilation, should Heaven decide that it was time for the ‘brigands’ to be annihilated.33 Around the time the Siege of Ulsan was raging in the south, Oh gives us an indication of the harshness of the conditions both sides faced: he recorded that the cold was much bitterer than normally at that time of year, and one of his slaves became unable to walk after suffering frostbite.34 Oh had been excited to hear the siege was on-going, and again talked of the whole country’s certain joy if news came of victory.35 When the word first arrived that the fierce fighting had ended in an allied retreat, Oh literally could not believe it: believing Ma Gui’s tactical ability was ‘godlike’, he wondered whether the retreat was a feint.36 When his son Yun’gyŏm gives him a fuller account, the reality was only more devastating: reported casualties were ten thousand among ‘Tang and our armies’ to only one thousand Japanese, owing to the impenetrable third ring of the Japanese castle at Ulsan. The allied forces were already freezing and starving when Japanese reinforcements appeared simultaneously along the mountains

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above and by river, at which point Yang Hao fled.37 Oh’s despair was absolute; he repeated his oft-used refrain that he did not know where he would die. But where previously he had exclaimed that they could but leave their fate to Heaven, now he questioned why Heaven had helped their enemies: for the Chinese and Koreans, like the Japanese, saw divine intervention in the falling rain at Ulsan, the rain that had saved the defenders from thirst at that most crit­ ical moment.38

1598, peace at last The defeat at Ulsan became a scandal in Beijing and an official investigation was launched. The Chosŏn court all but despaired as Ming factional politics once again stalled the advance of the Ming army, upon which they relied so totally. The Chosŏn court itself became embroiled, having once again fallen foul of spurious accusations of inviting the Japanese to Korea, and the drama lasted for months.39 It was not until the very end of 1598 that the news Oh Hŭimun – and the rest of Chosŏn with him – had hoped for since 1592 finally arrived: the Japanese forces had withdrawn from the peninsula. In the event, Oh’s reaction was not the unadulterated joy he had predicted, as the news came alongside reports of all the court officials celebrating. This particularly riled Oh, who had long been exas­ perated by the incompetence and propensity to bickering of the Chosŏn court. He was under no illusion that final victory came because the Japanese chose to leave, rather than being forced to do so. He furiously wrote that it was scandal­ ous that in seven years of war Chosŏn lost countless generals, but failed to kill even one Japanese general. In contrast to his criticism of the court, Oh mourned the loss of Admiral Yi Sunshin in battle, recognizing him as having protected the southwest of the country (and therefore his family) during the first invasion.40 As the diary draws to an end, Oh records several rumours that the Japanese were due to attack again.41 With hindsight we can see these were merely rumours, but Oh displays surprising specificity and accuracy in the knowledge of the regency arranged for Hideyoshi’s son, showing that valid information from Japan also circulated widely.42 Oh was equally aware of events in China, record­ ing Shen Weijing’s final fate of execution in Beijing.43 Oh Hŭimun’s diary continued until he and the family finally moved back to (what was left of) the family home in the capital. By this time he had turned sixty, and observed that he was coming to the end of his life, after having been married for over forty years.44 The departure of the Japanese did not mean an immediate end to hardship. His wife’s long-term ill-health had worsened, probably not helped by malnutrition (as a woman, she had often gone without to ensure Oh and her sons had something to eat), and even into 1599 the family still struggled to find food.45 Their return to the capital was also delayed because the capital had been overrun by Chinese troops, who were occupying empty houses, stealing, and putting tremendous strain on local resources. Chinese officials, soldiers, and mer­ chants maintained a prominent presence in the capital until after Oh finished his diary in 1601, and with the Japanese gone, Oh devoted more attention to them.

A world connected 135

The Ming in Chosŏn: a dangerous spectacle In spite of his family repeatedly suffering from the lawlessness of Chinese troops, encountering Chinese people was always a curiosity for Oh Hŭimun. He had many chances to see Chinese people after the Japanese had retreated and he was able to make short trips to the capital, to prepare the way for his eventual return and to tend to the family graves. The Chinese seem to have been a major highlight of his visits to the capital, earning daily mention in his diary. On one visit, he was at some sort of public house with friends, when twenty or so ‘Tang’ people arrived and started to play drinking games. This, ‘was a curious spectacle indeed’ (亦一奇 觀), Oh wrote.46 The previous day he had already described a Chinese feast he observed. As his sojourn in the capital continued, he commented on the bustling market full of Tang people, and particularly on seeing an officer with his escort – a similar sight to that reported by his son Yunhae 允諧 (b. 1562) years before.47 He was impressed by the size of the Chinese army contingents. On one occasion he encountered Tang (i.e. Ming) troops returning from training, who he said filled the road for a distance of ten ri 里 (2.5 miles). All fully armed, they were ‘an impres­ sive spectacle indeed’ (亦一壯觀).48 He repeated the same phrase in his diary entry for the following day, but this time he had purposefully climbed a hill to see the Tang officer(s) directing training.49 Oh’s spell in the capital seems to have turned into a tourist trip, with the Chinese army being the main attraction. At the same time as Oh was goggling at the Chinese, the perennial theme of ‘Tang troop’ violence continued. Even Chosŏn officials were not exempt from violence: Oh heard that the official in charge of Kyŏnggi 京畿 province was beaten unconscious by Tang soldiers.50 Abuse at the hands of Ming troops was a phenomenon that affected all people in Chosŏn, from the highest officials down to slaves. The populace generally chose to vacate an area if the Ming army was due to pass through, commoners hiding in the woods by day and burying their belongings.51 Hearing all this, Oh was very aware of the suffering of ‘people of our country’ (a’gug’in/uri nara saram 我國人) at the hands of ‘Tang troops’.52 The suffering at the hands of the Chinese extended to Oh’s own family, too. While staying in the capital, Yun’gyŏm wrote to tell his father how the Tang troops were violent and trouble-making, and beat his slaves.53 Oh Hŭimun’s own slaves were robbed and beaten on multiple occasions.54 Then, finally, he was robbed himself by Chinese soldiers in the capital, having his fan stolen during hot weather.55 Earlier that month the raincoat his slave was bringing him was also stolen, so that a few days later when the heat gave way to the monsoon season, he was left in a leaking coat borrowed from another slave (who probably had to do without one).56 While Oh complains at the unpleasantness of being first hot and then wet, he does not record any anger toward the Chinese perpetrators. In fact, in this post-war period, his opinion is strangely mute when recording the crimes of ‘Tang’ troops. This makes a striking contrast with the period in 1593 when Oh shared the anti-Ming sentiment that seems to have reached fever-pitch among the local populace at that time. His silence also sits tellingly juxtaposed with his mar­ velling commentary on the novelty of all things Chinese he admires at this time.

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A Ming monument in Chosŏn The greatest Chinese spectacles Oh encounters are without a doubt the new shrines which Ming military officials had ordered built in the capital. Oh makes deliberate journeys to visit both of the shrines to Lord Gwan 關公 (C. Guan) which were built on the outskirts of Hansŏng 漢城 (Seoul). Guan Yu 關羽 was a historical military figure of the Chinese Three Kingdoms period (220–280), but by this point in history had long since been deified as a warrior for righteousness.57 The cult of Guan Yu reached a high point during the Ming dynasty, and the reign of the Wanli 萬曆 emperor (1573–1620) in particular. Though originally a folk cult, during this period worship of Guan Yu gained patronage at the highest levels. Previous Ming emperors had performed rites to Guan Yu, but as a particularly fervent patron, the Wanli emperor went as far as to bestow Guan Yu with the title of ‘emperor’.58 Within Chosŏn, the cult of worship­ ping Guan Yu 關羽 (K. Kwan O) was entirely alien, but the quasi-historical tales of the Three Kingdoms period were already widespread.59 It seems unlikely to be a coincidence that Oh borrows a copy of a Samguk chi 三國志 (C. Sanguo zhi, ‘Record of the Three Kingdoms’) the day before his first shrine visit – but it could also be that such texts had become more plentiful through the new Chinese markets.60 In any case, it does not appear to have been interest in deity worship that drew Oh to the shrines, but the curiosity of their novelty and Chineseness. On his short trip to the capital in the fifth month of 1599, when he indulged in daily sight-seeing of all things Chinese, Oh went with a friend and a slave to see the shrine built outside Namdaemun 南大門 (the southern gate).61 He describes the shrine as being built by ‘Tang generals’ though it was the Chosŏn govern­ ment that reluctantly funded its construction.62 The design must have appeared distinctively exotic to Oh, as he described it in detail. The fortune-telling prac­ tice of the ‘Tang people’ is also a curiosity to him. People tell him that huge numbers of Chinese people visit, and he is left with the impression that the shrine is important to the Chinese. During his tour of the shrine Oh read many inscriptions on the walls and pillars, but he wrote that on returning home he could only recall one couplet, which read: Timeless heroic airs illuminate the glory of the superior country; The new shrine’s visage quells the protectorate state.63 This couplet is significant in a number of ways. First, it identifies the Ming with Guan Yu, suggesting that his powerful demeanour reflects the qualities of Chosŏn’s suzerain. This is not merely a literary flourish: it paired with the domi­ nating statue of Guan Yu to reinforce its desired effect. When Oh visited the second shrine outside the Eastern Gate (Tongdaemun 東大門) in 1600 it was still under construction so without inscriptions, but he was struck by the overpowering golden statue of Lord Guan.64 A second intriguing aspect of the couplet is that it explicitly picks out the appearance of the shrine and its effect on

A world connected 137 Chosŏn. This would seem to confirm that the Ming generals wished the shrine to impress the local inhabitants. Taking the two halves of the couplet together, the reader is given the strong impression that the glittering new shrine with Lord Guan towering at its centre was built as a monument, symbolizing Ming status and authority – realizing the assertion made by Chinese chronicler Xu Xizhen that Chinese culture visually impressed the people of Chosŏn.65 It is telling that when Oh Hŭimun returned home and lifted his brush, though many details had faded, it was the overall appearance of the shrine and this couplet that had left the deepest impression upon him. The Guan Yu shrines were evidently designed to and would have succeeded in making an impact on a large number of people. As reflected in the couplet, it is as if the shrine were to take the place of the Chinese garrison once it had left, in ensuring the peace by inspiring awe in the local populace. By co-opting this figure of wide appeal, the Ming generals were associating the Ming with what Lord Guan symbolized: a formidable martial force, but above all a force for righteousness and justice. The significance could not be lost on the Ming soldiers that poured into the shrine in such numbers, nor on local people, such as Oh Hŭimun, who would visit it and pass it for years to come. Chosŏn for the Chinese At different points during the war Oh copied into his diary documents he felt it was worthwhile recording. It is fascinating to see what reached Oh and what he found worthy of copying out. In some cases, if it were not for his copy we would not know the document ever existed. Oh copied out, for example, a Ming impe­ rial edict addressing Chosŏn, the record of a conversation between a Chinese officer and a Japanese labourer, and an explanatory essay on Chosŏn by a Chinese officer. Having looked at how the Guan Yu shrines represented a state­ ment about China, it will be interesting to look briefly at the Chinese essay all about Chosŏn, which Oh copied and annotated. Functioning like an encyclopedia article does today, this essay was a potted history of Chosŏn and the conflict to date, written by Lü Yingzhong 呂應鍾 (dates unknown), a Ming officer, for a Chinese audience, but being circulated in Chosŏn and pored over by Oh Hŭimun and his peers. Entitled simply Chaoxian ji 朝鮮記 (Record of Chosŏn), the text praises all aspects of Chosŏn unreserv­ edly – though Oh complains that Lü’s Chosŏn informant had failed to tell him about some of the most famous places and people.66 The text begins at the begin­ ning of history: 東方無君長 神人降太白山之檀木 衆君之 謂之檀君 與堯幷立 傳世千其 年 周封箕子 封於是也 一更而高麗 再變而朝鮮 臣屬我大明 典章文物 惟華是則 號小中華 [In the beginning,] the East had no ruler. A spirit man descended on a birch on Mount Taebaek [Mt Paekdu], and all took him as their ruler, calling him

138

Oh Hŭimun, one among many Tan’gun [lit. birch ruler]. He ruled contemporaneously with Yao [the mythologized first ruler of ancient China]. After a thousand years had passed, when the Zhou [dynasty (1046–256 bce)] enfeoffed the Viscount of Ji, he was invested here. With one change [the country] became Koryŏ, with another, Chosŏn. It is subservient to our Great Ming; in its rites and legis­ lation it takes only China as its standard. It is known as ‘Little China’.67

The Tan’gun myth is a subject of study in its own right, but even without exploring it further we can immediately appreciate its function in this narrative: it conveniently extends the history of Chosŏn backwards so that it is no less ancient than Chinese civilization – rather, Chosŏn and China exist in parallel. In contemporary histories of Chosŏn the Viscount of Ji usually served the function of legitimizing Chosŏn’s culture as being civilized or Chinese-like, by showing it had its origin in a Chinese viscount. Here, no such role is emphasized, but the ‘gentle’ nature ascribed to Chosŏn culture by other contemporary Ming writers is present nonetheless. Oh’s copying of this document is an example of Chosŏn-developed narratives being transmitted back into Chosŏn from a Ming source. The main effect of Chaoxian ji’s portrayal of Chosŏn is the gross simplification of the peninsula’s history (unknown pre-history, Han-dynasty colonization, long-term division as multiple kingdoms) to create one country which has occupied the ‘eastern’ space since the beginning of civilization. The pride of Lü Yingzhong’s Chosŏn informant seems to shimmer behind Lü’s brush. This is particularly so when he defends Chosŏn against criticism of military incapability, once again merging multiple countries into one identity: ‘it is this same Chosŏn that previously stood its ground against Tang armies of a hundred thousand, Sui armies of two hundred thousand, and Mongol armies of a million’.68 The Sui (581–618) and Tang (618–907) empires in fact attacked the kingdom of Koguryŏ (c. 37 bce–668 ce) and the Mongols the kingdom of Koryŏ (918–1392), but all past valiant deeds are subsumed into a single proud, continuous ‘Chosŏn’. Past military achievements – real or imagined – are summoned to counter the charac­ terization of the Chosŏn elite as obsessed with poetry and helpless on the battle­ field, which is seen in other Chinese writing at this time. It is difficult to imagine that Oh Hŭimun read this defence of Chosŏn and did not identify with it. Here was his country in the gaze of another – the gaze of China, the supreme cultural authority of the known world. It is no wonder that Oh was frustrated that more places and people of note were not included. Chaoxian ji places Chosŏn not only next to Ming China but in opposition to Japan. Chosŏn’s gentle and high moral nature is contrasted to the uncivilized customs of the Japanese: ‘the masses of the whole country are set to fall in one fell swoop under the rule of barbarians’.69 This reflects the language Chosŏn lit­ erati were using to describe their situation. The phrase translated here as ‘under the rule of barbarians’ is zuoren 左衽 (K. chwa’im), which literally means ‘fastening one’s robe to the left’. It refers to foreign peoples considered less civi­ lized, who reportedly tied their robes to the left, in contrast to the practice of

A world connected 139 tying robes to the right in the ‘civilized centre’. Its locus classicus is a quote attributed to Confucius.70 Oh Hŭimun used the same word to lament that, ‘if [the southwest] lost, then we will all be untying our hair and fastening our robes to the left’.71 One of the many Calls to Arms (kyŏngmun 檄文) that Oh records seeks to incite action by putting the prospect of succumbing to barbarous Japanese rule in still starker terms: ‘That chungha (‘Chinese’, or ‘civilized’, C. zhongxia) should become barbarians (or ‘non-Chinese’), that human kind should become beasts and birds, can this be tolerated?’72 In the minds of Oh Hŭimun and his peers, a defining characteristic of Chosŏn was its embodiment of superior learning, morality, and custom. The Japanese practices of cutting back their hair and staining their teeth recalled the savage foreign peoples recorded in Chinese histories, and served as most visual reminders of their ‘barbarity’.73 Valiant ‘Little China’, on the verge of falling to the barbarians: these are the terms in which Chaoxian ji presented Chosŏn to the Chinese, and the narrative that Chaoxian ji reinforced among Oh and his peers when the text returned to circle among them.

Further thoughts China experienced and imagined Oh’s experiences show how, for the Chosŏn elite at least, there must have been a great dissonance between the China imagined as the home of culture and morality and the China of their first-hand experiences. Yet Oh also provides an insight into how people may have reconciled the conflicting elements in their visions of China. When the Ming commander Wan Shide 萬世德 demanded that Oh Yun’gyŏm provide him with large quantities of ginseng, it was clear to Oh Hŭimun that Wan’s demand for ‘army supplies’ was simply personal greed. Yun’gyŏm had to comply or be punished, and the prisons were being filled with hapless subjects whom the government held to ransom for ginseng.74 Oh Hŭimun wrote of Wan’s actions: ‘It is most hateful, but what is to be done, what is to be done?’ At this point, Oh contrasted the local and the central. Lamenting the cor­ ruption of the commander in Chosŏn, Wan Shide, he observed that the ‘Sage Son of Heaven’ – i.e. the Ming emperor – had always been extremely caring of the ‘the Eastern people’.75 By this simple device of separation, Oh Hŭimun was able to maintain an idealized view of China in a distant ‘centre’ even while com­ plaining of the suffering he saw before his eyes. After Ming officials had finally left and memories receded, it would only have become easier to remember the emperor’s benevolence and forget his servants’ misdeeds. A connected world Swaemi rok is particularly revealing with regard to the ways in which informa­ tion flowed between people; this is something less visible in sources convention­ ally studied in the history of the war, such as court records. We see for example

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the power of word-of-mouth transmission, bringing (sometimes inaccurate) news of victories and defeat to a populace ready to respond at a moment’s notice should danger be coming their way. The volatile war situation meant that all in society, from the highest to the lowest, were personally invested in the course of wider events. The connectedness of the Chosŏn populace was further strength­ ened by the country’s relatively small size: this meant both that few were remote enough to be disinterested, and that news could spread widely at speed. Even from their secluded valley in the east, it took one of Oh Hŭimun’s slaves only five days to do a round-trip to the capital Hansŏng 漢城 (Seoul) on foot.76 The relatively small distances involved meant that written correspondence was also frequent. In discussing the flow of information, one important caveat to mention is that Oh Hŭimun’s network of friends, family, and acquaintances represented only part of the country: there is only infrequent mention of the southeast, and almost no mention of the country north of the capital (except P’yŏnggang, once his son is posted there). This may have coloured his understanding of the situation and we should be cautious in making assumptions about how much those in the most northern provinces, for example, were integrated into the same social networks or felt part of the same community. Despite Oh Hŭimun’s social sphere being somewhat limited geographically, we see information flowed to him across great distances and across borders. Accurate news of Hideyoshi’s succession and Shen Weijing’s sentencing reach him from Osaka in the east and Beijing in the west. We have seen, too, how a shared Classical Chinese education allowed Oh to read documents written by men in China and Japan that, again, all seem to find their way to him. This inten­ sified interaction was by no means confined to Oh and his fellow literati, however. The Chinese who stayed on in Chosŏn and the Koreans who managed to return from Japan, all added to knowledge of the wider world in Chosŏn. Meanwhile, foreign products flooded the market, suddenly appearing with greater frequency in Oh’s diary – be they Japanese fans or Chinese feather caps.77 The Chosŏn we glimpse through Swaemi rok was far more connected in 1601 than it had been in 1592. We can also say that the people of Chosŏn were more aware of the wider world, and more conscious of Chosŏn’s place in it, than ever before. Class and country Through Oh’s diary we see that war both compounded class differentiation and made it less important. On the one hand, class often meant the difference between life and death. Could Oh have survived without his potent social resources? Very probably not. Yet, at the same time, suffering levelled and brought together. Oh complained that Ming soldiers did not differentiate between nobles and commoners in their rough treatment of the Chosŏn people: in the face of foreign armies, class meant little.78 The shared plight of the inhabitants of the Korean peninsula inspired Oh’s invocation of an all-inclusive community.

A world connected 141 In the months and years Oh worried about what might happen, fear of what would become of his family, the people, and the country became indistinguishable. For, as Oh put it, only ‘when peace comes to the country, then our family too will be safe’. Oh saw the fate of him and his family as intimately entwined with the fate of Chosŏn, whether that be the Yi royal house (whose ancestral tombs’ desecration required vengeance) or the Chosŏn that represented a proud history and a con­ tinuity of civilization: there was no clear distinction between these aspects, as all appeared to stare into the abyss together. In Oh’s own words: Every time I think of the great matters of state, before realizing it I become worried and angry and sigh. All the more so when the great debt of ven­ geance has not been paid, the dynasty teeters on the edge of extinction, and the suffering of the people is greater than ever. Even living in a valley I cannot for a moment relieve myself of idle worries about the country … when peace comes to the country, then our family too will be safe.79 Postscript – beyond the war JaHyun Haboush argued that the Calls to Arms, circulated to drum up support for the volunteer militia during the war, by including everyone, ‘created an ima­ gined Chosŏn community that came to include every Korean, transcending social status and region’.80 As we know, Oh read these Calls to Arms and copied several out in his diary. Volunteer armies were an active response to the same recognition that we see again and again in Oh’s writing, that the people of the country now shared a common fate. While in peacetime the noble and the slave were destined to live opposite lives, from 1592 they found themselves facing the same foes – be they Japanese, famine, disease, or marauding Ming troops; while before the war the subject’s relationship with the state could be transactional, and loyalty abstract, once the Japanese arrived their survival seemed inseparable. Class was never erased, and disaffection from the court intensified rather than abated, but these were transcended, at least temporarily and conditionally, when all were faced with a common foe and a state of total war. This sense of solidarity we glimpse through Swaemi rok poses the question of whether such a sense persisted once the storm had passed. The legacy of the Chinju massacre in 1593 (reader’s may recall the Japanese breach of the ceasefire in the first chapter on Oh) can serve as an illustrative example in this regard. The Japanese certainly did not discriminate by class after the city fell. Haboush, who addressed the question of the war’s legacy directly, points to the commem­ oration of the dead at Chinju as including all who died, even the unidentified, as evidence of new all-inclusive community.81 Characteristically, when Oh heard about the massacre at Chinju his first concern was for the noble families who had been ushered into the city for safety beforehand.82 He recounted various stories of heroics and tragedy, but the lower classes did not receive his attention. Yet after the war – and still today – one of the most famous figures from the battle was the self-sacrificing courtesan Non’gae 論介 (she was in fact a gwan’gi

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官妓 – a state-owned sex slave), said to have tempted a Japanese commander to the edge of the city wall and then jumped with him to their death. In popular retellings, she tended to kill either the fearsome Kiyomasa or Hideyoshi himself. Where Oh saw commoners oppressed by conscription, now a slave-courtesan took the initiative; where only the death of nobles had been noteworthy, Non’gae’s achievement was imagined as greater than any general’s: the trend was towards more inclusion not less.83 Ritual memorials and popular tales of the war provided a rare space where all of Chosŏn was joined in a common fate against a common foe – perhaps even more than they had been in life.

Notes 1 Oh Hŭimun, ‘Swaemi rok’ 鎖尾錄 (Record of a Refugee) n.d., 丙申(1596) 4.02., Jangseogak Royal Archives. 2 「如在他國」 Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 6.05. 3 Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 2.16. Oh’s other two sons and their households lived separately from Hŭimun throughout the war, in order to disperse the mouths that needed feeding. 4 Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 3.19. 5 Ibid. 6 Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 4.21. 7 Reports of Chinese troops arriving: Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 7.05. Oh’s family moving to avoid Chinese troops: Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 6.04. Oh’s son-in-law Shin Ŭnggu enter­ taining the Chinese ambassador: Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 7.17–7.18, 9.07. 8 Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 7.14. 9 Genso seems to have enjoyed pointing out that Chosŏn could simply not afford to resist any demands made by the Ming as, without Ming support, Chosŏn was unable to expel the Japanese ‘Sŏnjo sillok’ 宣祖實錄 (Annals of the Sŏnjo Reign) n.d., 1596.1.01(3)., National Institute of Korean History. 10 ‘Swaemi rok’, 丁酉 (1597) 7.29. 11 Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 8.28. 12 Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 9.02–9.05. For Keinen’s writings, see the previous chapter. 13 For an example of using the official post system, see Ibid. at 壬辰 (1592) 11.30. 14 Ibid. at 戊戌 (1598) 10.13. 15 For Tana’s ability in Hangŭl see Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 6.20. Regarding Classical

Chinese, see Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 2.1. 16 Ibid. at 乙未 (1595) 1.3. 17 Ibid. at 癸巳 (1593) 5.8. 18 Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 7.10. 19 For example of ‘death day’ used in connection to Oh’s slave, see Ibid. at 庚子 (1600) 12.15. 20 Ibid. at 丙申 (1596) 11.1. 21 Ibid. 22 Ibid. at 甲午 (1594) 7.24, 戊戌 (1598) 7.29, 10.13. 23 Ibid. at 戊戌 (1598) 10.06, 丁酉 (1597) 12.11. 24 His antagonistic relationships with the slaves he refers to as ‘Song-nom’ 宋奴 and ‘Tŏng-nom’ 德奴, for example, appear to have consumed much emotional energy over a period of years. 25 For example: Ibid. at 庚子(1600) 12.15. Makjŏng was the unfortunate victim of an unfaithful wife (mentioned above), who starved himself to death in response to the hurt and embarrassment of her betrayal. Oh felt his death keenly: Ibid. at 乙未 (1595) 12.18. 26 Ibid. at 乙未 (1595) 2.30.

A world connected 143 27 As just one example, Oh had a monk arrested when he was rude to one of Oh’s female slaves. Ibid. at 乙未 (1595) 12.29. 28 The term chŏk 賊, translated here as ‘brigands’, was commonly used to refer to any person or group who broke the law or rebelled against authority. Oh uses the term t’ojŏk 土賊 (‘local brigands’) to describe groups of Chosŏn bandits, for example. Ibid. at 庚子 (1600) 1.21. Alternative potential translations for chŏk include ‘outlaws’ or ‘rebels’. 29 Ibid. at 丁酉(1597) 8.23. 30「一國之慶 為如何哉」 Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 9.21. 31 Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 12.11. 32 Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 12.25. 33 Country’s survival: 「國家存亡」. Ibid. at 戊戌 (1598) 8.27. 34 Ibid. at 戊戌 (1598) 1.07, 1.12. Without making a specific claim for the winter of 1597–1598 in Korea, it is interesting to note that temperatures were generally lower then than now, with some frequently much colder winters: this was the time of the ‘Little Ice Age’. Climatological research suggests global surface temperatures were reduced by an average of 0.15°C in the late 1500s and early 1600s as a result of the Great Dying of Indigenous Peoples of the Americas, which followed post-1492 Euro­ pean migration. Koch, Alexander et al., ‘Earth System Impacts of the European Arrival and Great Dying in the Americas after 1492’, Quaternary Science Reviews 207 (1 March 2019). 35 Ibid. at 戊戌 (1598) 1.06. 36 ‘Godlike’: 「用兵如神」. Ibid. at 戊戌 (1598) 1.16. 37 Ibid. at 戊戌 (1598) 1.24. 38 Ibid. Oh heard that it was snow – it may well have been both, though Keinen’s firsthand account is more likely to be accurate. Snow was reported to Oh as a critical factor in the allied defeat with the first news he hears: ibid. at 戊戌 (1598) 1.16. 39 Following the defeat, questions were soon being asked in Beijing. The censor Ding Yingtai 丁應泰, sent to investigate, accused Yang Hao and others of falsifying reports (the battle at Ulsan was reported as a victory) and of forming cliques to hide the truth. Factional politics was behind most of the controversy, with senior official Zhang Wei 張位 (1538–1605) backing Yang Hao, while the southern Ming armies quickly joined in attacking Yang, who belonged to the northern military faction. Ding Yingtai objected to Chosŏn’s defence of Yang, and responded by alleging that Chosŏn was dissatisfied after it was decided that an island on the Yalu River (on the Sino-Korean border) belonged to China rather than Korea, and so asked the Japanese to bring their armies to help Chosŏn win it by force. (His evidence was a rumour that he claimed to have heard en route to Korea.) The accusations flew back and forth for months, but by 1599 the larger part of the Beijing court had come to reject Ding’s reports. The whole affair, and the war as a whole, was given official resolution by an Imperial Edict issued in the fifth month of 1599. For discussion of the controversy see Gari Ledyard, ‘Confucianism and War: The Korean Security Crisis of 1598’, Journal of Korean Studies 6 (1989 г.); Li Guangtao 李光濤, ‘Ming ren yuan Han yu Yang Hao Yushan zhi yi’ 明人援韓与楊鎬蔚山之役 (The Ming’s Aid to Korea and Yang Hao’s Battle of Ulsan), Lishi yuyan yanjiu suo jikan 歷史語言研究所季刊 41, no. 4 (1969 г.): 545–566; Li Guangtao 李光濤, ‘Ding Yingtai yu Yang Hao: Chaoxian renchen wohuo luncong zhi yi’ 丁應泰與楊鎬:朝鮮壬辰倭禍論叢之一 (Ding Yingtai and Yang Hao: A Discussion on the Chosŏn Imjin Japanese Disaster), Lishi yuyan yanjiu suo jikan 歷史語言研究所季刊 53 (1982 г.): 129–166. 40 ‘Swaemi rok’, 戊戌 (1598) 12.3, 12.6, 12.16. 41 Ibid. at 庚子 (1600) 1.21. 42 Ibid. at 己亥 (1599) 7.24. 43 Ibid. at 己亥 (1599) 7.4. 44 Ibid. at 己亥 (1599) 1.1.

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Ibid. at 己亥 (1599) 6.7, 6.13. Ibid. at 己亥 (1599) 5.5. Ibid. at 己亥 (1599) 5.6, 癸巳 (1593) 5.8. Ibid. Ibid. at 己亥 (1599) 5.7. Ibid. at 己亥 (1599) 3.15. See, for example: Ibid. at 己亥 (1599) 2.25, 丁酉 (1597) 11.13. Ibid. at 己亥 (1599) 2.9. Ibid. at 己亥 (1599) 3.3. Ibid. at 丙申 (1596) 2.15, 戊戌 (1598) 12.30, 己亥 (1599) 3.11. Ibid. at 己亥 (1599) 5.9. Ibid. at 己亥 (1599) 5.2, 5.12. Barend J. ter Haar, Guan Yu: The Religious Afterlife of a Failed Hero (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), e.g. 218–222. 58 Kuwano Eiji 桑野栄治, ‘Chosŏn Korea and Ming China after the Imjin Waeran: State Rituals in the Later Chosŏn Period,’ in The East Asian War: International Relations, Violence, and Memory, ed. James Bryant Lewis (Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge, 2015), 294–322. 59 That Three Kingdoms tales were widespread is implied by the court records from earlier in King Sŏnjo’s reign. Hyuk-chan Kwon, ‘From Sanguo Zhi Yanyi to Samgukchi: Domestication and Appropriation of Three Kingdoms in Korea’ (University of British Columbia, 2010), esp. 51–53. It is also supported by the multiple references to Oh Hŭimun borrowing and reading Three Kingdoms stories in Swaemi rok, e.g. ‘Swaemi rok’, 己亥 (1599) 5.7, 庚子 (1600) 3.24. 60 ‘Swaemi rok’, 己亥 (1599) 5.7. 61 Ibid. at 己亥 (1599) 5.8. 62 The government was forced to fund both shrines; the southern shrine was built in 1598. See Kuwano Eiji, ‘Chosŏn Korea and Ming China after the Imjin Waeran’, 294–322. 63「萬古英風昭上國 新開廟貌鎮藩邦」 ‘Swaemi rok’, 己亥 (1599) 5.8. 64 Ibid. at 庚子 (1600) 2.29. 65 Xu Xizhen claimed the Koreans were desperate to keep Chinese troops in Chosŏn, because ‘the Koreans had been awe-struck by Chinese (Zhongguo) clothing and adorn­ ments’ (麗人為中國服飾震懾). Xu Xizhen 徐希震, ‘Dong zheng ji’ 東征記 (Record of the Eastern Expedition), KJ 5249, 41a, Kyujanggak, Seoul National University. 66 ‘Swaemi rok’, 甲午 (1594) ‘Chosŏn ki [Chaoxian ji]’ 朝鮮記 (Record of Chosŏn). While we do not know more about the circumstances of the essay’s writing or distribu­ tion, it is possible Lü Yingzhong’s informant was Kim Pokhŭng 金復興 (1546–1604), who served as Lü’s assistant and whose poems exchanged with Lü are included in his collected works, Kyegok jip 谿谷集. Cho Kidae, ‘Kim Pokhŭng’ 金復興, Hanguk minjok munhwa taebaekwasajŏn (The Academy of Korean Studies, 1995 г.). 67 Viscount of Ji: known in Korean as Kija. ‘Little China’: xiao Zhonghua 小中華 could also be interpreted as ‘little civilized centre’, yet Zhonghua was contemporaneously used as a name for China, synonymous with the Ming empire. ‘China’ in the previous sentence is a translation of Hua 華, which undoubtedly refers to the specific popula­ tion and culture of China rather than ‘civilization’ in the abstract. ‘Swaemi rok’, 甲午 (1594) ‘Chosŏn ki [Chaoxian ji]’ 朝鮮記 (Record of Chosŏn). 68「卽此朝鮮 向嘗敵唐師十萬·隋師二十萬·蒙固師百萬矣」 Ibid. 69「擧國大衆 行將一鼓盡左衽矣」　 Ibid. 70 Confucius is quoted as having said: ‘But for Guan Zhong, we should now be wearing our hair unbound, and the lappets of our coats buttoning on the left side.’ (微管仲 吾 其被发左衽矣)). James Legge, trans., ‘Lun yu’ 論語 (The Analects), Xian wen 憲問, The Chinese Text Project. (Legge translation modified by the Chinese Text Project to reflect Hanyu pinyin spelling.) 71「若失兩湖 則吾爲被髮左衽矣」 ‘Swaemi rok’, 癸巳 (1593) 4.8.

A world connected 145 72「中夏變為夷狄 人類化為禽獸 是可忍乎」 Ibid. at 壬辰 (1592) 9.2. 73 More than one Call to Arms draws attention to these Japanese practices. One asks, ‘shaving one’s hair and dying one’s teeth: can it be tolerated?’ 「髠頂染齒, 其可耐 歟」. Ibid. 74 Ibid. at 己亥 (1599) 9.2. 75「痛甚奈何奈何」 「聖天子」 「東民」 Ibid., 己亥 (1599) 8.28 76 Ibid. at 己亥 (1599) 1.9. 77 A great variety of items were gifted and became available for sale, at least in the capital. Japanese fans (倭扇) were given as presents, e.g.: Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 6.02. Chinese feather caps (唐毛冠) and needles (唐針) as presents: Ibid. at 己亥 (1599) 11.14, 11.24. 78 Oh hears from his son Yunhae 允諧 that ‘Tang troops’ beat and stole from nobles in just the same way as from commoners. Ibid. at 己亥 (1599) 3.26. 79 Emphasis added. 「每念國家大事 不覺憂憤興歎也 况大讐未報 宗社垂亡 民生 之苦 到此尤劇 身在谷中 漆室之憂 不能暫弛于懷也 […] 國家平定後 吾家亦 安」 Ibid. at 丁酉 (1597) 7.5. 80 ‘Calls to Arms’ is not Haboush’s translation, but is intended to refer to the written exhortations that were variously named kyŏkso 檄書, kyŏngmun 檄文, or t’ongmun 通 文. Haboush pointed to the inclusion of men of all classes in the exhortations to display loyalty and defend the land, and to the importance of the act of taking up arms itself (rather than following orders) as representing the first emerging of a sense of one nation and popular sovereignty. Haboush, JaHyun Kim, The Great East Asian War and the Birth of the Korean Nation, ed. Haboush, William J. and Jisoo Kim (Columbia University Press, 2016), esp. 33–71. 81 Haboush, The Great East Asian War, 137–138. One recalls twentieth-century Tombs of the Unknown Soldier, which play an important part in creating a sense of shared national identity. 82 ‘Swaemi rok’, 癸巳 (1593) 7.6–10. Making special provision for the protection of the aristocracy (yangban 兩班) in the well-fortified cities seems to have been common practice, as in the same diary entry Oh records that it was being done in Namwŏn 南 原 as well. 83 Non’gae’s story can be seen as a site contested by the state and the common people, but in which both sides sought greater commoner participation in the war. While Non’gae’s story was employed by the state, the elite, and the patriarchy to valorize loyalty to the state of every subject, and to reinforce the idea of women as chattels (just as in life Non’gae existed to entertain men, so too in death her duty was to the state), within the confines of women’s roles in Chosŏn society, the story also repres­ ented a reclamation of agency by the lower classes. When told by commoners for commoners, it was an empowering tale, exciting and satisfying because a low-born woman succeeded in killing a Japanese general – something the Chosŏn ruling class had singularly failed to do. This story appears in the popular tales of Imjin nok 壬辰 錄, a theme of which was resentment against the state that had failed to protect its people. Regarding Non’gae and Imjin nok see Choi Kwan 崔官, Bunroku · keichō no eki: bungaku ni kizamareta sensō 文禄 · 慶長の役〔壬辰 · 丁酉倭乱〕: 文学に刻ま れた戦争 (The Bunroku-Keichō Expeditions (Imjin/Chŏngyu Waeran): A War Engraved in Literature) (Tokyo: Kōdansha 講談社, 1994), 136–7, 237.

References Cho Kidae. ‘Kim Pokhŭng’ 金復興. Hanguk minjok munhwa taebaekkwasajŏn. The Academy of Korean Studies. http://encykorea.aks.ac.kr. Choi Kwan 崔官. Bunroku · keichō no eki: bungaku ni kizamareta sensō 文禄 · 慶長の役 (壬辰 · 丁酉倭乱): 文学に刻まれた戦争 (The Bunroku-Keichō Expeditions (Imjin/ Chŏngyu Waeran): A War Engraved in Literature). Tokyo: Kōdansha 講談社. 1994.

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ter Haar, Barend J. Guan Yu: The Religious Afterlife of a Failed Hero. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 2017. Haboush, JaHyun Kim. The Great East Asian War and the Birth of the Korean Nation. Edited by William J. Haboush and Jisoo Kim. Columbia University Press. 2016. Koch, Alexander, Chris Brierley, Mark M. Maslin, and Simon L. Lewis. ‘Earth System Impacts of the European Arrival and Great Dying in the Americas after 1492’. Quaternary Science Reviews 207 (1 March 2019): 13–36. https://doi.org/10.1016/j. quascirev.2018.12.004. Kuwano Eiji. ‘Chosŏn Korea and Ming China after the Imjin Waeran: State Rituals in the Later Chosŏn Period’. In The East Asian War: International Relations, Violence, and Memory, edited by James Bryant Lewis, 294–322. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. Kwon, Hyuk-chan. ‘From Sanguo Zhi Yanyi to Samgukchi: Domestication and Appropri­ ation of Three Kingdoms in Korea’. University of British Columbia. 2010. Ledyard, Gari. ‘Confucianism and War: The Korean Security Crisis of 1598’. Journal of Korean Studies 6 (1989 г.). Legge, James, trans. ‘Lun yu’ 論語 (The Analects), n.d. The Chinese Text Project. http:// ctext.org/. Li Guangtao 李光濤. ‘Ding Yingtai yu Yang Hao: Chaoxian renchen wohuo luncong zhi yi’ 丁應泰與楊鎬:朝鮮壬辰倭禍論叢之一 (Ding Yingtai and Yang Hao: A Discus­ sion on the Chosŏn Imjin Japanese Disaster). Lishi yuyan yanjiu suo jikan 歷史語言研 究所季刊 53 (1982 г.): 129–166. Li Guangtao. ‘Ming ren yuan Han yu Yang Hao Yushan zhi yi’ 明人援韓与楊鎬蔚山之 役 (The Ming’s Aid to Korea and Yang Hao’s Battle of Ulsan). Lishi yuyan yanjiu suo jikan 歷史語言研究所季刊 41, no. 4 (1969 г.):545–566. Oh Hŭimun. ‘Swaemi rok’ 鎖尾錄 (Record of a Refugee), n.d. Jangseogak Royal Archives. http://yoksa.aks.ac.kr. ‘Sŏnjo sillok’ 宣祖實錄 (Annals of the Sŏnjo Reign), n.d. National Institute of Korean History. http://sillok.history.go.kr. Xu Xizhen. ‘Dong zheng ji’ 東征記 (Record of the Eastern Expedition). Seoul National University. KJ 奎中 5249. Kyujanggak. Seoul National University.

7

Post war Stories retold, countries reimagined

Post war As the seventeenth century began, the war had ended, and life in China, Korea, and Japan went on. Chosŏn was left picking up the pieces, literally and metaphorically. In 1601, Oh Hŭimun’s son Oh Yun’gyŏm travelled to Kyŏngsang province as an attend­ ant to a senior minister, where the Japanese had first landed and which they held for a long time. He wrote back to his father that the land was deserted, with destruction stretching for miles around the coasts.1 The state had to deal with rebuilding infrastructure, but was also faced with the task of rebuilding its legiti­ macy. Part of the Chosŏn court strategy was to put enormous emphasis on the benevolence of the Ming in saving Chosŏn, and the court’s function in maintain­ ing the relationship with the Ming. Of course, emphasizing the Ming as saviours meant conveniently forgetting the abuses Chosŏn officials and subjects had suf­ fered at the Ming’s hands. Reverence for the Ming became a central part of elite Chosŏn thinking, with literati in Chosŏn continuing to use the Ming calendar for hundreds of years, despite the Qing dynasty removing the Ming from power in 1644.2 The Qing’s defeat of the Ming dynasty was a huge historical moment that caused much soul- searching in China. In retrospect, the final decades of the Ming came to be viewed as a period of decline, and in this light the campaign in Chosŏn was appraised more critically – especially as some of the officers who fought in Chosŏn also fought and lost against the Qing. Under the newly- established Qing dynasty, which continued to fight remnants of the Ming in the south for years, acclaiming the Ming’s military triumphs also became politically unwise.3 Celebration of Hideyoshi’s military adventures also became subject to censure in Japan, though it continued unabated.4 Power changed hands swiftly after the war, as Hideyoshi’s infant heir and his regents were defeated by forces loyal to Tokugawa Ieyasu 徳川家康 (1543–1616), who had bided his time during the Chosŏn campaigns. This change in regime meant that Japan- Chosŏn diplomatic relations resumed within a decade of the war ending, as Ieyasu was able to claim he had opposed Hideyoshi’s invasions. As part of the

148 Post war: stories retold, countries reimagined

Figure 7.1 The grave of Toyotomi Hideyoshi 豊臣 秀吉 (1537–1598), author of the Japanese invasions, in Mount Kōya 高野山, Wakayama. Source: Photograph: author, 2013.

rapprochement, King Sŏnjo of Chosŏn demanded Korean captives be returned; a token number were, but thousands – perhaps tens of thousands – stayed and began to merge into the local populace.5 The seventeenth century saw a rapidly expanding market for books in all three countries, and popular stories of the war were told and retold, despite polit­ ical sensitivities.6 Against the background of shifting politics, we would expect that how the war was remembered would also evolve. We find, however, that change did not wait for the next great events of history but began even before

Post war: stories retold, countries reimagined 149 the war had ended. This chapter looks at some examples of how the first- hand accounts from 1592 to 1598 were used by those far removed from the foreign countries they were writing about, whether that be in time or simply a matter of distance. A tension between the writings of those who directly experienced foreign peoples and places and those who had no such experience was key in determining which narratives about the war would be remembered by later generations.

Selective memories This book cannot do justice to the extensive and varied ways the war was remembered in subsequent centuries, in popular literature, serious history, plays, paintings, and ritual.7 Our focus has been on the eyewitness accounts of the war. One or two examples will suffice, however, to demonstrate the power dynamics that quickly limited the influence of those eyewitness accounts – once so prized for their superior authenticity. An underlying theme of this book has been the rapid opening up and mutual learning that the war precipitated, and the crucial role in this played by those at what we could call the ‘frontier’: that place of meeting between this group and that, between us and them. Equally interesting was the countervailing force of what we could call the ‘centre’: the weight of tradition, and people with greater cultural capital. After the 1592–1598 war, people on all sides found ways to write stories of victory. They could do this by emphasizing certain events and omitting others, and by picking and choosing from the deluge of new information that had flowed from the frontier during the war. Frequently, the result was that new complexity was displaced by long-held stereotypes, and uncomfortable facts were reworked into satisfying narratives. The effects of these revisions continue to affect us even today, as we shall see in an example below. This selective memory by later historians is highly revealing, pointing both to how those doing the remembering wanted to see themselves, and to the changing political circumstances of the remembrance. Scholarship on the remembrance of war in the contemporary period has shown how the political inclinations of dominant social groups affect what memories of war enter the public realm.8 These observations resonate with what became of Keinen’s and Oh Hŭimun’s diaries. While Yoshino’s memoir circulated in Japan to some extent, we know Keinen’s did not. Yoshino’s celebration of Japan as Land of the Gods was importantly tempered by acknowledgement of Japan’s limited strength, but his tale was nonetheless one of samurai valour. Keinen’s diary, on the other hand, ran counter to mainstream sensibilities in Japan and the preferred narrative of a glorious campaign. Oh Hŭimun’s diary was perhaps too full of the minutiae of personal life to have attracted broad interest as a history of the war, but it also contained records that sat awkwardly with the dominant postwar narrative in Chosŏn of the Ming as Chosŏn’s saviour. We can perhaps see an anticipation of this in the latter

150 Post war: stories retold, countries reimagined years of Oh’s diary, where he was remarkably restrained in criticizing what were flagrant abuses of power by the Ming army at all levels. Even so, Oh’s descend­ ants may have felt that his rage against the Ming and distrust of their motives in the earlier years of the diary were better left in private. In contrast to Keinen and Oh’s writings, Xu Yihou’s report was not only prized at the time for its authentic information on Japan, but went on to inform later writing across the region. Yet it was definitely a case of Xu’s writing informing subsequent historians in China and Korea more than influencing. The same can be said of Hwang Shin’s report – equally valued at the time for its ‘first- hand’ account of Hideyoshi’s rage ending the peace negotiations.9 It is in the context of Xu’s and Hwang’s reports – known to have circulated widely – that we shall look at what changed as the history of the war was written. Reversion to type: un-learning about the Japanese Despite years of diplomatic engagement, a Japanese embassy to Beijing, a Ming embassy to Osaka, and numerous reports from the frontier, the similarities between how Chinese historians described Japan and the Japanese before the war and how they described them afterwards are striking; in some cases, all new insight seems to have been forgotten. Perhaps the most surprising point of con­ tinuity is that Ming historians after the war followed their predecessors in depict­ ing the Japanese as pirate raiders. They failed (or simply chose not) to recognize that Hideyoshi’s invasion was essentially different from the ‘Japanese’ raids that had long plagued China’s coasts. Xu Yihou’s report had provided fresh and far deeper insights into the Japanese political situation. The reader may recall that Xu had in fact described himself requesting Hideyoshi to take action to prevent the pirates running amok. Despite this, the unofficial history Wanli san da zheng kao 萬曆三大征考 (Study of the Three Great Campaigns of the Wanli era), produced at least as early as 1621, is typical in its semi- informed and simplistic portrayal of the Japanese. It introduces them as follows: The Wo [Japanese] are known as the most powerful and cunning among the yi [non-Chinese peoples] of the islands. Since the Tang dynasty they changed the name of their country to Japan. … At the beginning of the Hongwu era (1368–1398) the Vice Prefect of Laizhou Zhao Zhi was sent to deliver a letter bearing the Imperial seal, proclaiming that their king Liang Huai would send tribute. Before long they again raided all the commanderies on the coast.… In the fourth year of the Yongle era (1406), on account of his achievements in catching pirates, their king [Ashikaga Yoshimitsu] was awarded a golden seal and given the title Zhen Shan. A stele was carved to commemorate the event. [They] were given a license to trade (kanhe) and commanded to travel through Ningbo, paying tribute once every ten years. After this, however, they were in fact inconsistent: sometimes paying tribute and sometimes raiding.10

Post war: stories retold, countries reimagined 151 The activities of pirates and the ‘king’ in the Hongwu era are not distin­ guished here, such that all ‘Japanese’ activities are ascribed to a single agent, which is then blamed for its unreliability. Later, the Japanese shogun Ashikaga Yoshimitsu is recognized as contributing in the fight against pirates, yet when pirate raids continue, there is again no clear distinction of respons­ ibility between the ruler and the miscreants. Instead, the Japanese are pre­ sented as fickle and unreasonable. In the version of this text held in Peking University, there are occasional comments from a later reader in the margins, and above the section just quoted there are the words: ‘A precursor of the investiture and [giving of permission to pay] tribute’.11 The author and this unknown later reader were both resorting to the simplest explanation of Japanese motivations: the perfidy with which ‘barbarians’ had been stereo­ typed for centuries.12 Another account of the Ming’s campaign, Dong zheng ji 東征記 (Record of the Eastern Campaign), published even earlier in 1604, introduced Japan in an almost identical way: Japan is located in a distant corner of the seas. It dares to claim the name Japan (lit. Origin of the Sun). Its customs are of greed and cruelty. Since the Sui and Tang dynasties, it has been beyond the pale of civilization due to being isolated. During the Hongzhi era (1488–1505), [the Japanese] sent a tribute mission led by monks. They were received as honoured guests. After the mission they were indeed respectful, but almost immediately they drew their blades and began looting and pillaging, in betrayal of [the Ming’s] original intention of appeasement. From this it can be seen that they have no sense of gratitude or duty.13 More crudely even than the account in Wanli san da zheng kao, this narrative readily slotted the Japanese into the established rubric of the civilized and the barbarian (hua and yi)14 – with no effort to understand them. They are fixed as a single and amorphous actor, fickle and violent. Even if we suppose that the author, Xu Xizhen 徐希震, had not seen Xu Yihou’s report (despite it being widely circulated and cited in Liang chao ping rang lu 兩朝平攘錄,15 a history produced at the same time), other people had given even clearer explanations during the war. One of these people was a man called Zhao Shizhen. Several years earlier, in a short text published in Beijing, he had explicitly addressed how this invasion was different from Japanese raiding of the past: The brigands at that time were not sent by a chieftain, but were engaging in robbery by themselves; each man fought for himself.… Yet the brigands of today are not so. Above, they are pressed by Chieftain Hideyoshi’s might; below, they are thinking of their wives and children. Exposed in a foreign country, any gain will not belong to them.16

152 Post war: stories retold, countries reimagined Zhao seems to have been almost alone in distinguishing so clearly between a central ruler and self-organizing bandits.17 This begs the question, why? Zhao Shizhen was a particularly intriguing man who published his opinions on the Ming’s campaigns in Chosŏn while they were still going on. He was a low- ranking official, but in his spare time he was a military enthusiast, making policy proposals and developing his own weapons prototypes throughout his life.18 Zhao was frustrated by the debate over China’s policy towards Japan that he saw in Beijing. He could not claim first- hand experience on the eastern front, like the other individuals we have followed, but he did claim to have more close-quarters knowledge of the Japanese than his contemporaries, apparently having had direct experience of Japanese raids on the southeast coast in his youth.19 It is this that seems to have set him apart. It is also precisely because he felt others in the capital did not understand the Japanese that he decided to publish his own policy arguments.20 Presenting himself as someone from the frontier (as we have defined it here), Zhao’s observations and policy proposals make for a telling contrast with the accounts of the Ming campaigns that appeared post-war. He wrote an essay in the form of dialogue, where his interlocutor was knowledgeable of past Japanese raids, but stubbornly persisted in his set views about them. He and his friends from the southeast expressed frustration that people with no experience of the Japanese confidently held forth on them, without seeking knowledge beyond standard histories.21 Zhao Shizhen’s frustration, and the fact that subsequent writers did not learn from his insights, is illuminating: it shows that it was not for want of information that stereotypes persisted, but because of later histor­ ians’ proclivity for ‘authoritative’ sources and familiar narratives. China the unassailable: from might to right Xu Xizhen, and his colourful and caricatured Dong zheng ji (Record of the Eastern Campaign), perfectly exemplify this ‘reversion to type’ among histor­ ians immediately after the war. Arguing that the achievement of the Ming’s cam­ paign was ‘unparalleled in history’ (Xu was not afraid of hyperbole), the author’s express intent in writing was for this achievement to be appreciated by later gen­ erations.22 Dong zheng ji, like other post- war Ming histories, not only looked at events through the lens of final victory, but was in fact written in celebration of Ming achievement.23 This meant that the roles of China and Japan in the war were recorded in a way fundamentally different from how they were discussed in Zhao Shizhen’s writing mid- war. Xu wrote not from experience, but from court reports and hearsay. The China portrayed in Dong zheng ji is superior in a variety of ways. Xu Xizhen first of all celebrated the intelligence, virtue, and military prowess of Ming commanders. Wan Shide 萬世德, for example (who we learn through Swaemi rok was in fact corrupt),24 terrified the Japanese with just the news of his coming, and before he even reached Chosŏn, upon realizing the ‘caitiffs’ (Jurchen) needed to be taught a lesson, promptly donned his armour and charged

Post war: stories retold, countries reimagined 153 into battle, taking many enemy heads.25 In addition to portraying individual Ming commanders as vastly superior to the enemy, Xu Xizhen also emphasized how foreign peoples were impressed by things Chinese during the campaign. The Koreans (lit. ‘people of Koryŏ’ 麗人) were so awestruck by ‘Chinese cloth­ ing and adornments’ (中國服飾) that they begged for Chinese troops to stay after the end of the war, wrote Xu.26 Xu was indulging a sense of collective pride by allowing his fellow Chinese readers to imagine Chinese troops dazzling culturally-inferior non-Chinese peoples. One scene in Dong zheng ji vividly captures the exuberant confidence with which the author portrays China and its enemy. It is an instance of divine intervention: When the army was advancing on four fronts, the Japanese had retreated out to sea and Chen Lin and the others were about to press them. Then dark clouds could be seen to gather thickly, and mist from the sea was making a haze. They saw at a distance a spirit general with a long beard and red face in mid- air. He swung a great sword, felling the Japanese flags and behead­ ing the Japanese army. The whole sea was soldiers and horses wearing green [head]bands. It was only then that the Japanese understood that the emperor of China (Zhongguo) is given sagacity and benevolence by Heaven, and bestowed with the vessels of power. He cannot be challenged by covet­ ous plotting. They were all frightened out of their wits. Throwing off their armour and abandoning their weapons, their army crumbled to pieces.27 In this story, China’s authority was justified in terms of the appointment by Heaven of its ruler. Xu Xizhen was arguing that the Japanese could never have unseated ‘the emperor of China’ from his position of supremacy, not because of superior Chinese military might or size, but because the ruler of China was divinely appointed. This divine blessing was also presented as inseparable from righteousness, a moral superiority. This is implied by Xu’s own comment that ‘spirits aided the victory […] spreading the righteous might (wei) of the court’.28 The symbolism of the whole episode was designed precisely to convey that righteousness was on China’s side: the unnamed spirit general who appeared is the embodiment of righteousness itself. Xu Xizhen did not need to name the spirit for his readers, because his description of a long beard, red face, and green headbands already identified him: it was none other than Guan Yu.29 We encountered Guan Yu in the preceding chapter, when Oh Hŭimun visited the shrine to Guan Yu that the Ming army had demanded Chosŏn build in the capital. Here Xu Xizhen was again appropriating Guan Yu as a symbol to demonstrate that righteousness was on China’s side, and that the Ming was administering divine justice in the world.30 Xu Xizhen’s abstract justification of China’s superiority was a comfortable return to the florid claims of imperial rhetoric after a war that had in fact at one point deeply shaken confidence in Beijing. Writing a few years earlier, when the Ming had suffered setbacks on the battlefield and final victory was by no means

154 Post war: stories retold, countries reimagined assured, Zhao Shizhen had talked about how Chinese morale was low. The primary purpose of his essay was in fact to convince a sceptical audience that the Japanese could indeed be defeated.31 Xu Xizhen acknowledged in passing that there had been widespread Chinese fear of the Japanese, but only as a foil for the heroism of the Ming commanders: ‘Everyone said of the Japanese that they had emptied their lair when they came, that they were unstoppable, and no less than several hundred thousand men could be their match.’32 For Zhao and his contemporaries, whether or not the Ming could defeat Japan had direct implications for China’s status in the world. Zhao presented himself as no less assured of Chinese superiority than Xu Xizhen in Dong zheng ji. In writing to the emperor with his (pro- war) policy proposals, Zhao also adopted standard self- aggrandizing rhetoric about China. Yet, despite often using similar language, Zhao does not make abstract assertions about moral or cultural superiority. He instead explains China’s superiority comes simply from its superior size: Your servant has pondered over this. Our China (Zhongguo) has the largest and most esteemed polity (lit. body), and permanent strategic advantage. Taking hold of these circumstances to support our great and esteemed polity, pacifying the barbarians of the four directions and the ten thousand countries [of the world], there are none who do not come to make offerings and be enfeoffed as kings [of their countries]. For this reason, the advantage is always with our China. The people of the Han dynasty said that the Xiongnu were not equal to even one large prefecture of China. Minuscule Japan, far off in the eastern sea, is not even equal to one large settlement of the Xiongnu. When our grand ancestor the first emperor [of the Ming] likened them to mosquitoes he was making no baseless remark! Yet today, [people] do not examine the situation, do not take account of relative size, and only believe the words of those who delight in disaster and the chaos of factional politics, and rather aggrandize the brigands’ position. [They] refer to tiny and insignificant upstarts as a rival [i.e. equal] country, and decide who is strong and who is weak based on a single victory or defeat, and who holds military advantage based on individual specific matters. [They] do not consider that China has the largest and most esteemed polity.33 While echoing the arrogance of imperial rhetoric, Zhao was in fact a realist. He recognized that Japan’s economy could not possibly compare with China’s, and so ultimately stood no chance of defeating the Ming. Zhao’s realism was what was needed in mid- war earnest policy discussion; Xu Xizhen’s all- encompassing condescension was an indulgence made possible by victory. The turn of the seventeenth century was a moment when people in Ming China could reasonably survey the world and perceive no credible threat to China’s supreme position.34 The post-war decades gave Ming historians who did not have direct experience of the Japanese the confidence to eschew accurate

Post war: stories retold, countries reimagined 155 details of Japan and its politics in favour of caricature, and move from realist assessments of China’s might to revel in an all- encompassing superiority: superi­ ority in strength, in righteousness, in culture – even in the favour of Heaven. When China bowed to Japan: a story long in the making Looking at the legacy of ambassador Hwang Shin’s reports from Japan in 1596, we can see here too an altering of emphasis: there was a loss of nuance in por­ trayals of the Japanese even when Chosŏn historians were directly quoting from Hwang’s account. Most revealing about his writing’s legacy is how his account of the key turning point of the war in 1596 was used and re- used, until it was transformed beyond all recognition into a version of events that is still retold today. Nothing better demonstrates the power of centrally-written histories to determine how the war is remembered, at the expense of writings from the frontier. Liang chao ping rang lu 兩朝平攘錄 (Quelling Disturbances over Two Reigns), was a history which dedicated a significant section to the Ming cam­ paign in Chosŏn, and which appears to have been read widely: published in Zhejiang, China in 1606, it quickly found its way to Japan.35 Textual analysis reveals that its information on the key turn of events in Japan – Hideyoshi’s decision to re- invade – originated in Hwang’s report.36 When Liang chao ping rang lu quoted Hideyoshi, his words are almost identical, down to the character, with the report sent by Chosŏn relaying Hwang’s intelligence.37 The author of Liang chao ping rang lu, Zhuge Yuansheng 諸葛元聲, thus had access to a first- hand account, but he interpreted it according to his own view of the whole war. A key theme he introduced is the idea that it was clear from the beginning that the peace negotiations would fail. In this narrative, the negotiations were the machinations of traitorous men in league with the greedy and unreliable Japanese (following the penchant for clear moralistic tales common to much Chinese historiography). Zhuge wrote that Chosŏn had known all along that there was no hope for peace.38 A complex process of negotiation and compromise was thus reduced to simple deceit on the part of the Japanese and a villainous Shen Weijing. In taking this line the author was following those in Beijing who from the beginning had vehemently opposed negotiations and the employment of Shen.39 As a celebration of successful military campaigns, Liang chao ping rang lu naturally took the side of the pro- war faction in Beijing. Furthermore, the char­ acter of Shen Weijing made the perfect, weasel- like villain to complete the tale. The author takes pleasure in having him prostrate unashamedly before Hideyoshi, adding in a commentary: ‘the disgrace of Yang and Shen’s meeting Hideyoshi was too terrible for words.… From this one can know that one cannot rely upon a base person in high office.’40 The attraction of a black and white moral tale, combined with the long-standing stereotype of the Japanese as violent and unpredictable, meant there was no incentive to dwell on the details of what had enraged Hideyoshi.

156 Post war: stories retold, countries reimagined This account of the war – whereby the Japanese had never had any real interest in peace – became influential, particularly as Liang chao ping rang lu spread quickly and widely: we know that by 1632 at the latest it was being read in Japan.41 It was to become one of the sources for the much- cited Japanese history Sei Kan i ryaku 征韓偉略 (The Magnificent Campaign to Punish Korea). Sei Kan i ryaku was an impressive work of history drawing on around sixty sources from Japan, Korea, and China. As its title implies, it firmly rejected the belittling Sino-Korean accounts of Japan and recast the invasions as a glorious righteous campaign.42 In this new Japan- centric account, the pathetic character of a submissive Shen in Liang chao ping rang lu is taken and further developed by the author. Chinese author Zhuge Yuansheng had presented the investiture ceremony as shameful for the Ming dynasty, but his emphasis was on Shen being a scoundrel. Under a Japanese brush the symbolism of a trembling Chinese emissary prostrating before the awe-inspiring Japanese warrior-ruler, Hideyoshi, was indulged to the full. Where Zhuge had left ambiguity as to what had actually caused Hideyoshi’s wrath, Sei Kan i ryaku happily fills in the blank: Hideyoshi was not angered by the demand to withdraw his forces from Chosŏn (as Hwang Shin originally reported), but enraged when he learns the ‘true’ contents of the Ming imperial edict, demanding that he submit as vassal. Sei Kan i ryaku claimed that Hideyoshi had been kept in the dark until that point: for in the proud author’s mind no self- respecting Japanese leader would willingly accept vassal status from China.43 This later re- telling of events – by a Japanese historian using a Ming history based on the Chosŏn ambassador’s report – became so influential that it remains the orthodox narrative to the present day: many recent English books on the war have followed this line, repeating the narrative that Hideyoshi had not realized he was accepting Ming vassalage.44 It is only within the smaller circle of Japanese-language studies on the peace negotiations that the idea that Hideyoshi rejected investiture outright has recently been seriously interrogated.45 The Sei Kan i ryaku version represented only a subtle shift: Hideyoshi still flew into a rage upon having a Chinese letter read to him, but by changing the content of the letter and the precise cause of his surprise, the later version cast the whole peace process and the second invasion in a different light.46 The Sei Kan I ryaku was one of many Japanese post-war histories that expli­ citly rejected the idea of Japan kowtowing to any foreign power. They followed diarists from during the war in invoking Empress Jingū’s supposed conquest of Korea as evidence that Japan was a central power to which others paid tribute, and not vice versa.47 Freed from immediate fear of Qing-dynasty invasion by the sea between them, Japanese chroniclers were free to claim for Japan a seat equi­ valent to that of the Celestial Court. Sei Kan I ryaku was deliberately written in Classical Chinese, with cross-references to Chinese and Korean dates, evidently seeking to enter a region- wide historiographical battle over what the war signi­ fied for the relative status of Japan, Korea, and China. Tracing the evolution of individual accounts as they crossed the sea shows us how the history of the war continued to be contested between the two opposed

Post war: stories retold, countries reimagined 157 sides over the subsequent centuries. As texts flowed back and forth they cross- fertilized each other along the way. Historians on each side claimed victory in the war, and in doing so suppressed the memory of defeat, caricatured portrayals of friend and foe, or simply invented scenes which suited them. Existing narrat­ ives about the other side, such as Chinese stereotypes of the Japanese, proved powerful enough to resist much of the new information which those with direct experience sent back from abroad or from the frontier. This was the fate of many of the eyewitness accounts studied in this book: to be cited selectively, then cast aside or forgotten. That we are fortunate enough to still have so many primary sources from the war, allows us to trace how that process unfolded, and better appreciate the forces that shaped the dominant narratives conceptions of China, Korea, and Japan.

China, Korea, and Japan lived and imagined From the outset this book has argued that the war was a process of learning about neighbouring countries and their peoples. In this chapter, we have seen the great limiting factors on that learning, disinterest and prejudice, which reasserted themselves as soon as the need for military intelligence was gone. Histories of the war on all sides were marked by vanity; they were stories of ‘our’ victory, and as such, many authors decided details of ‘them’ were only needed in so far as they helped tell the story about ‘us’; even the warrior Yoshino’s memoir, despite being a first- hand account, only includes as much detail as is necessary to demonstrate Japanese valour. Factual details were only part of the process of mutual discovery, however. The individual stories in this book point to the power of the experience of 1592–1598 to strengthen narratives around China, Korea, and Japan, and senses of belonging to those countries. The histories pro­ duced after the war show how recounting the events of 1592–1598 – accurately or otherwise – served to reinforce ideas about what each country stood for.48 It appears that the war did not so much create fundamentally new ideas or ways of imagining China, Korea, or Japan as it made real and immediate what were already well-established ideas. During the war, the individuals we have fol­ lowed came to experience China, Korea, and Japan on a visceral level, rather than as abstract concepts. They were not merely eyewitnesses to the three coun­ tries at war, but living participants. For Oh Hŭimun, and the authors of the Calls to Arms that he copied out, the war was an existential question for Chosŏn: not only of physical survival but of survival as a country and people of higher moral and cultural status – a people bound together as never before by common enemies and a common fate. For Japanese writers Yoshino and the monk Keinen, the outcome of the campaign represented no less than a test of Japan’s place in the world. Keinen joined Oh Hŭimun in seeing the fortune of his country (un 運) as also deciding whether he lived or died. Yoshino wrestled with insec­ urity, drawing on all the historical and mythical ammunition he could to justify Japan’s standing. Hwang Shin and Pak Hongjang had the potent experience of representing their country abroad, and meeting their countrymen abducted there.

158 Post war: stories retold, countries reimagined Xu Yihou’s decision to risk everything for his homeland replaced homesickness with a personal mission to protect China by undermining Japanese efforts. The primary sources also illustrate how these experiences were by no means restricted to a literate few. From the travel-ban applied to Chinese-origin resi­ dents of Satsuma, reported by Xu Yihou in 1591, to the abuses of the locals by Ming troops in Hansŏng, reported by Oh Hŭimun in 1601, violence and law made country- defined identities lived realities for people of every class. Through all the accounts, we have seen how violence, exchanging of news, story-telling and even physical monuments all played a part in strengthening senses of belonging to China, Korea, or Japan. The written word formed but part of a rich context of communication and imagination.49 Storytelling did not cease with the end of the war, but continued in every format, ensuring the story of China, Korea, and Japan at war reached not only those far removed from the battle­ fields, but continued to play out as imagined conflict generation after generation.50

Notes 1 Oh Hŭimun, ‘Swaemi rok’ 鎻尾錄 (Record of a Refugee) n.d., 乙未(1601) 2.19, Jangseogak Royal Archives. 2 Factional struggle helped cement loyalty to the Ming as a key tenet of Chosŏn politics, notably when it was made a pretext for the coup of 1623, enthroning King Injo 仁祖 (r. 1623–1649). Brutal geopolitical reality was impressed upon the Chosŏn court in 1636, when the newly- established Qing dynasty invaded Chosŏn, to devastating effect. Despite King Injo being forced to capitulate to the Qing, Chosŏn officials and scholars internally continued to profess loyalty to the Ming. Thus the most compre­ hensive Chosŏn history of the Japanese invasions, written in 1649, was an ode to the benevolent Ming, for having rescued its vassal from the jaws of destruction: Sin Kyŏng 申炅, Chaejo pŏnbang chi 再造藩邦志 (Salvation of a Vassal State), vol. 7, Taedong yasŭng 大東野乘 (Kyŏngsŏng [Seoul]: Chosŏn kosŏ kanhaenghoe 朝鮮古 書刊行會, 1910). 3 Rescuing the history of the Ming campaigns from Qing- dynasty criticism has been a major contribution of Swope’s research. Kenneth Swope, A Dragon’s Head and a Serpent’s Tail: Ming China and the First Great East Asian War, 1592–1598 (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2009). 4 Choi Kwan 崔官, Bunroku · keichō no eki: bungaku ni kizamareta sensō 文禄 · 慶長の 役〔壬辰 · 丁酉倭乱〕: 文学に刻まれた戦争 (The Bunroku- Keichō Expeditions (Imjin/Chŏngyu Waeran): A War Engraved in Literature) (Tokyo: Kōdansha 講談社, 1994), 238. 5 For discussion of the fates of Korean captives in Japan, see Naitō Shunpo 内藤雋輔, Bunroku-Keichō no eki ni okeru hirojin no kenkyū 文禄 · 慶長の役における被擄人 の研究 (Tokyo: Tōkyō daigaku 東京大学, 1976). 6 In Chosŏn, the market for vernacular stories continued to grow throughout the seven­ teenth century, with many Chinese works being imported and translated. This was underpinned by a growing class of the moderately prosperous. Japan also saw a flour­ ishing of urban vernacular culture at this time, and stories of Hideyoshi and his Chosŏn invasion proved popular. Literature on the war reached a peak in both coun­ tries in the second half of the eighteenth century. (Ibid. at 236–238.) In China, the six­ teenth century had already seen a significant expansion of printing, which made books more accessible, while readership was swelled by growing urban populations. (Joseph

Post war: stories retold, countries reimagined 159 McDermott, ‘The Ascendance of the Imprint in China’, in Printing and Book Culture in Late Imperial China, ed. Cynthia J. Brokaw, Studies on China 27 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 55–104.) 7 Some studies of later textual and dramatic representation of the war already exist. Haboush specifically looked at how remembering the war contributed to a strengthen­ ing of national consciousness (her observations on national identity are discussed in the next chapter). Choi Kwan’s study of Japanese literature and theatre similarly found that re-enacted battles with exotic enemies contributed to a sense of Japaneseness opposed to the foreign. Jahyun Kim Haboush, ‘Dead Bodies in the Postwar Dis­ course of Identity in Seventeenth- Century Korea: Subversion and Literary Production in the Private Sector’, The Journal of Asian Studies 62, no. 2 (2003): 415–442; Haboush, The Great East Asian War and the Birth of the Korean Nation, ed. William J. Haboush and Jisoo Kim (Columbia University Press, 2016); Choi Kwan 崔官, Bunroku · keichō no eki: bungaku ni kizamareta sensō 文禄 · 慶長の役〔壬辰 · 丁酉 倭乱〕: 文学に刻まれた戦争 (Tokyo: Kōdansha 講談社, 1994). 8 Bourke, Joanna, ‘Introduction: “Remembering” War’, Journal of Contemporary History 39, no. 4 (2004): 473–485. 9 As we saw in Chapter 4, Hwang Shin’s account was in reality a second- hand one, being mediated by his Japanese hosts. 10「倭於島夷 稱最強黠 自唐更號日本 […] 洪武初 遣萊州府同知趙秩奉璽書 諭其 王良懷入貢 已復寇瀕海諸郡 […] 永樂四年以其王有源道義有補海寇功 賜金印 封其鎮山 碑而銘之 予勘合 令道寧波 十年一貢 後竟貢寇無常」 Mao Ruizheng, ‘Wanli san da zheng kao’ 萬曆三大征考 (Study of the Three Great Campaigns of the Wanli Era) n.d., 倭上 1a–1b, SB/916.85/4426, Peking University Library. Ashikaga Yoshimitsu 足利義満 (1368–1394) was enfeoffed as ‘King of Japan’ (日本國王) by the Yongle 永樂 (r. 1360–1424) emperor. See Swope, A Dragon’s Head and a Serpent’s Tail, 47. 11「封貢伏案」 Mao, ‘Wanli san da zheng kao’, 倭上 1a–b. 12 Barbarian perfidy, opposed to Chinese trustworthiness, had a long and well- established history in foreign policy discourse. See, for example, Shao- Yun Yang, ‘ “What Do Barbarians Know of Gratitude?” – The Stereotype of Barbarian Perfidy and Its Uses in Tang Foreign Policy Rhetoric’, Tang Studies 31 (2013): 28–74. 13 ‘Japan’: Xu uses the most ancient name for Japan, understood in Chinese as ‘Land of the Wonu’ 倭奴國. Because of the characters used to transcribe the name, ‘Wonu’ carried pejorative connotations, as nu 奴 signified ‘slave(s)’. ‘Beyond the pale of civi­ lization’: hua wai 化外 literally means ‘outside the transformative influence’, where the transformation referred to is the positive moral and cultural influence of the emperor. 「倭奴國 僻居海嶠 僭號日本 其習俗貪殘 自隋唐宋以來 寘諸化外 隔尾 閭故也 弘治時 曾遣僧入貢 優禮延待 歸蔇崇明 即露刃剽掠 負柔懷初意 無恩誼 可知已」 Xu Xizhen, ‘Dong zheng ji’ 東征記 (Record of the Eastern Expedition), Seoul National University (n.d.), 1a, KJ 奎中 5249, Kyujanggak, Seoul National University. 14 For Xu’s use of the terms hua-yi 華夷, see for example Ibid. at 20a. 15 Zhuge Yuansheng 諸葛元聲, Liang chao ping rang lu 兩朝平攘錄 (Quelling Unrest in Two Reigns), ed. Zhongguo yeshi jicheng bianweihui, vol. 27, Zhongguo yeshi jicheng 中國野史集成 (Chengdu: Bashu shushe 巴蜀書社, 1993). 16「當時之賊 非酋長所遣 私自為盜 有利歸於己 人自為戰 […] 今日之賊則不然 上 迫平酋之威 下有妻子之念 暴露異國 利非己有」 Zhao Shizhen, ‘Dong shi sheng yan’ 東事剩言 (Surplus Words on the Eastern Business), Seoul National University (5414), 疏草 3a, Kyujanggak, Seoul National University. 17 Zhao demonstrates a far more in- depth knowledge of the Japanese than other sources that remain to us from the time, including, for example, their common sea routes and domestic economic situation. His knowledge of actual combat engagements with the Japanese also seems to have given him a more down-to-earth view of the

160 Post war: stories retold, countries reimagined Chinese- Japanese relationship than other contemporary commentators. Zhao Shizhen, ‘Dong shi sheng yan’; Zhao Shizhen, ‘Bei bian tuntian chechong yi’ 備邊屯田車銃 議 (Deliberation on Border Defense, Military Farms, and Mounted Cannon), in Yi hai zhu chen 藝海珠塵, ed. Wu Xinglan, vol. 35:2 (Taibei: Yinwen yinshuguan 藝文印 書館, 1965); Zhao Shizhen, ‘Wo qing tuntian yi’ 倭情屯田議 (Deliberation on the Japanese Situation and Military Farms), in Yi hai zhu chen. 18 Zhao’s treatise on the latest military technology and tactics was written at the end of the war, and had the Japanese in mind as one of the Ming’s enemies (he was greatly influenced by what he learned from Qi Jiguang 戚繼光 (1528–1588), who won renown defeating wokou (‘Japanese’) pirates along the southern coast). The treatise evidently proved popular, as copies started finding their way to Japan almost immedi­ ately. Zhao Shizhen 趙士禎, Shen qi pu 神器譜 (Catalogue of Wondrous Devices) (Taibei: Guoli zhongyang tushuguan 國立中央圖書館, 1981). 19 Zhao described himself as having direct knowledge of the raids and defence efforts, and having served in close proximity to the famous commander Qi Jiguang. See, for example, his preface in: Zhao, Shen qi pu. 20 Zhao was not originally from Beijing, but had grown up in Zhejiang 浙江 on the southeast coast, as part of a community with direct experience of defending against Japanese raids over generations. That his information about Japan came from oral sources as well as written is corroborated by the information he gave. For example, he spelled the place name Satsuma 薩摩 using a transliteration of Japanese pronuncia­ tion (‘Sasima’ 薩斯麻) rather than using the standard Chinese characters (Samo 薩 摩), as was the norm. Zhao Shizhen, ‘Dong shi sheng yan’, 疏草 3a. 21 See the main dialogue as well as the pre- and postfaces in Zhao Shizhen, ‘Dong shi sheng yan’. 22 Xu Xizhen, ‘Dong zheng ji’. 39a. 23 Two other examples of celebratory Ming histories are: Mao Ruizheng, ‘Wanli san da zheng kao’; Zhuge Yuansheng, Liang chao ping rang lu. 24 See Chapter 6. 25 Xu Xizhen, ‘Dong zheng ji’, 34a–34b. 26 Ibid. at 41a. 27「四路進兵 倭退下洋 陳璘等將危迫時 但見陰雲漠漠 海氣濛濛 半空中望見長鬚 紅面神將橫大刀 搴倭旗 馘倭隊 通海皆綠巾兵馬 倭始知中國帝皇天縱仁聖 神器 有授 非貪謀可欺 莫不魂飛魄散 棄甲投戈 土崩瓦觧矣」 Ibid. at 32a–32b. 28 Ibid. at 32b. 29 The distinctive visual features attributed to Guan Yu developed partly from mention of his beard in historical record, and partly from visual characterizations of him in Yuan dynasty drama. Li Linglong 李玲珑, ‘Yuan dai Guan Yu chongbai yu Yuan zaju zhong de Guan Yu xingxiang’ 元代关羽崇拜与元杂剧中的关羽形象 (Worship of Guan Yu in the Yuan Dynasty and the Image of Guan Yu in Yuan Plays), Qinghai shifan daxue minzu shifan xueyuan xuebao 青海师范大学民族师范学院学报 17, no. 1 (2006): 34–37; Liu Haiyan 刘海燕, ‘Guan Yu xingxiang yu Guan Yu chongbai de chuanbo yu jieshou’ 关羽形象与关羽崇拜的传播与接受 (Spread and Acceptance of the Image and Worship of Guan Yu), Nankai xuebao 南开学报 1 (2006): 74–79. 30 ‘Lord Guan’ had come by this time to be seen as an embodiment of loyalty (zhong 忠) and righteousness (yi 義) who used his martial power (wu 武) to punish transgressions of which he became aware. Thus, Xu Xizhen’s scene served to emphasize that right­ eousness was most profoundly on the Ming’s side. The fact that in life Guan Yu had fought on what was (from the Song times onwards) considered the legitimate side of a dynastic struggle, further demonstrated the Ming’s legitimacy. See Barend J. ter Haar, Guan Yu: The Religious Afterlife of a Failed Hero (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), esp. 218–222. 31 Zhao’s Shizhen essay, written in the form of a debate between him and a guest, shows how early setbacks against the Japanese had played into people’s lack of faith in Ming

Post war: stories retold, countries reimagined 161 military institutions which had ceased to function efficiently, and moreover, caused people to link together past Japanese victories. People remembered how ‘Japanese’ coastal raiders had run amok earlier in the sixteenth century, and particularly how the Japanese had succeeded in fending off the otherwise indomitable Mongol hordes. The result was that a popular view in Beijing seems to have been that the Japanese were a truly fearsome foe. Zhao Shizhen, ‘Dong shi sheng yan’. 32「人皆謂倭掃穴而來 勢不可當 必數十萬兵方堪往敵」 Xu Xizhen, ‘Dong zheng ji’, 6a. 33「臣伏而思之 我中國有至大至尊之體 長勝之機 執其機以端我尊大之體 撫四夷 綏萬邦 莫不來享 莫不來王者 緣此 機常在我中國也 漢人有言 匈奴不足當中國一 大縣 區區日本 僻處東溟 又不足當匈奴一大部落 我太祖高皇帝 以蚉虻擬之 豈無 所見而云然哉 乃今不察情形 不論小大 惟信幸災樂禍 喜亂奸黨之言 反張賊勢 么 麽小醜 名為敵國 較強弱於一勝一負之間 論兵機於一事一節之內 不思中國有至 尊至大之體」 Zhao Shizhen, ‘Dong shi sheng yan,’ 疏草 11a–11b. 34 Nurhaci (1559–1626) was already gathering the Jurchen (Manchu) into the force that would a few decades later conquer China as the Qing empire, but their strength was not yet apparent. The work of Jesuits such as Matteo Ricci (1552–1610) to demon­ strate through maps and treatises that there was a far wider world, with knowledge and technology that in some areas surpassed that of China, was on-going, but could be comfortably ignored by those who so chose. Ricci actually observed around this time that it was ignorance of the wider world that allowed many people in China to believe in the country’s uncontested political and cultural superiority, and when the true extent of that ignorance was laid bare, they would be rudely disaffected of that belief. Such a day had not arrived for Xu Xizhen and his contemporary chroniclers. Rather, victory in Chosŏn had quelled the doubts that initial setbacks had raised, allowing Xu to indulge in a triumphant tone. For Ricci’s comments: Li Madou 利玛 窦 (Matteo Ricci) and Jin Nige 金尼阁 (Nicolas Trigault), Li Madou Zhongguo zhaji 利玛窦中国札记 (De Christiana Expeditione apud Sinas), trans. He Gaoji 何高济 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju 中华书局, 1983), 183; for a wider study of Ricci and the Jesuit mission, see Ronnie Po- chia Hsia, Matteo Ricci and the Catholic Mission to China, 1583–1610: A Short History with Documents (Cambridge: Hackett Publishing Company, 2016). 35 The author, Zhuge Yuansheng 諸葛元聲, appears to have been from Kuaiji 會稽 (near modern-day Shaoxing 紹興, Zhejiang 浙江 province), and the publishing house which printed his book was also in Kuaiji: Banye Tang 半埜堂, owned by a man named Shang Jun 商濬. Wide circulation of Liang chao ping rang lu is suggested by multiple copies surviving across the region. We know it reached Japan no later than 1632 as it appears in the collection of one Tokugawa Yoshinao 徳川義直 at that time. Regarding the book’s circulation and influence, see Willem Boot, ‘ “Chōsen seibatsu ki” ni kakareta sensō’ 『朝鮮征伐記』に描かれた戦争 (The War Depicted in Chōsen Seibatsu Ki), in Jinshin sensō: 16-seiki Nit-Chō-Chū no kokusai sensō 壬辰戦争 : 16世紀日 ·朝·中の国 際戦争, ed. Chŏng Tu- hŭi 鄭杜煕 and Yi Kyŏngsun 李璟珣, trans. Obata Michihiro 小 幡倫裕 (Tokyo: Akashi shoten 明石書店, 2008), 208. 36 Before Hwang Shin and Pak Hongjang returned to Pusan, Hwang had sent an urgent report ahead to the Chosŏn court. The information contained in the report corresponds to some of the key points of the events laid out in the diary. The Chosŏn court decided it was imperative to convey the intelligence they had to Beijing, so that the Ming court would be aware of the collapse of the peace talks and the impending second invasion. Officials at the Chosŏn court feared the Chinese would push the blame for the collapse of the peace process onto Chosŏn, and refuse to aid Chosŏn further. ‘Sŏnjo sillok’ 宣祖實錄 (Annals of the Sŏnjo Reign) n.d., 1596.11.15, National Insti­ tute of Korean History. 37 Chosŏn court report: 「天朝遣使封我 我姑且忍之 朝鮮決不可許和 我但再要厮殺 天使亦不須久留 明日便可上船 我當再調兵馬 前往朝鮮厮殺」. Liang chao ping

162 Post war: stories retold, countries reimagined rang lu:「天朝遣使封我 我姑忍之 朝鮮決不許和 天使亦不須久留 明日可上船 我 當再調兵馬 前往朝鮮廝殺」 Ibid. at 1596.11.10; Zhuge Yuansheng, Liang chao ping rang lu, 27:70 (4 卷 33a–33b). 38 Zhuge Yuansheng, Liang chao ping rang lu, 27:70 (4 卷 32a). 39 The Minister of War, Shi Xing 石星 (1537–1599), was in the minority in his support of the peace negotiations, and his envoy, plucked from outside the ranks of the civil service or literati, was unpopular and met with widespread suspicion. Contemporary memorials directly attack Shen as deceitful. See, for example: Zhao Shizhen, ‘Dong shi sheng yan’, 疏草. 40 Zhuge Yuansheng, Liang chao ping rang lu, 27:70 (4 卷 32b). 41 Boot Willem, ‘Chōsen seibatsu ki’ ni kakareta sensō’, 208. 42 The term sei 征 in the title of Sei Kan i ryaku implies a punitive military campaign which is inherently righteous. In the preface, the author makes clear the campaign was to punish the crime of a rebellious vassal (Korea having previously submitted as a vassal). Kawaguchi Chōju 川口長孺, ‘Sei Kan i ryaku’ 征韓偉略, in Renchen zhi yi shiliao huiji 壬辰之役史料匯集, vol. 2, Chaoxian shiliao congbian 朝鮮史料叢編 (Beijing: Quanguo tushuguan wenxian suowei fuzhi zhongxin, 1990), 473 (1 卷 1a). 43 Yukinaga purportedly asked that the monk translating the edict for Hideyoshi conceal its real meaning, to prevent enraging the Kampaku, but the monk refused. His ‘toler­ ate it for the time being’ was interpreted as meaning putting up with investiture despite disliking it. Kawaguchi Chōju, ‘Sei Kan i ryaku’, 682–689 (4 卷 14b–18a). 44 For example, Swope cites Sei Kan i ryaku as the primary source for the events: Swope, A Dragon’s Head and a Serpent’s Tail, 220–222. Haboush also narrated the same version of events, e.g.: JaHyun Kim Haboush and Kenneth R. Robinson, A Korean War Captive in Japan, 1597–1600: The Writings of Kang Hang (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013), x. Hawley had ‘who submits to whom’ as the key bone of con­ tention: Samuel Jay Hawley, The Imjin War: Japan’s Sixteenth-Century Invasion of Korea and Attempt to Conquer China (Conquistador Press, 2014), 416–417. The Cambridge History of Japan gives an account closer to that presented here, explaining Hideyoshi’s wrath as due to his conditions not being met, rather than necessarily the concept of vassalage itself: Jurgis Elisonas, ‘The Inseparable Trinity: Japan’s Relations with China and Korea’, in The Cambridge History of Japan, ed. John Whitney Hall and James L. McClain, vol. 4 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991): 284–285. 45 Atobe has provided an astute analysis of the breakdown in negotiations in the context of Hideyoshi’s wider foreign policy: Atobe Makoto 跡部信, ‘Toyotomi seiken ki no taigai kankei to chitsujokan’ 豊臣政権期の対外関係と秩序観 (Foreign Relations and View of the World Order during the Toyotomi Government Period). Nihon-shi kenkyū 日本史研究 585 (2011):56−82. 46 In the Sei Kan i ryaku version it is the Ming edict and the concept of being invested as King of Japan that infuriates Hideyoshi, whereas the primary sources suggests the letter in question was Shen Weijing’s subsequent request that Hideyoshi relinquish all occupation of Chosŏn. Depending on which of the two it was, the peace process’s chance of success and Hideyoshi’s motivation for the devastating 1597 invasion appear differently. 47 For example, the influential Satsuman account of the war Sei Kan roku 征韓錄 mirrors Sei Kan i ryaku by beginning – in deliberate Classical Chinese: ‘Ever since Empress Jingū conquered Silla, together with Koryŏ and Paekjae [i.e. the three Korean kingdoms] they submitted as vassals to Our Court. Thus, the State Histories record that the San Kan [Three Koreas] paid tribute, generation after generation without end.’ 「昔神功皇后征新羅以來 與高麗百濟 悉臣服于 我朝 故國史載 三 韓入貢 世世不絕矣 …」 Shimazu Hisamichi 島津久通, ‘Sei Kan roku’ 征韓錄 n.d., 天の部 248 番 1713, Kagoshima University Tamasato Archive 鹿児島大学玉里文 庫, 1a. The author Hisamichi (1604–1674) was a descendent of Shimazu Yoshihiro 島津義弘 (1535–1619), who was a commander in the invasions of 1592 and 1597.

Post war: stories retold, countries reimagined 163 48 To say that these experiences ‘reinforced’ or ‘strengthened’ awareness of what China, Korea, and Japan signified rather than created an awareness, is not to argue that all the people involved, of all classes, already had such an awareness to some extent: as to that we can only conjecture. Rather, we should talk of strengthening because all the individuals we encountered – and the historians we saw above – drew on pre- established, well-developed ideas about the three countries. 49 Since theorists of modern nationalism demonstrated the important role of print media in the recent historical development of identity, there has been a tendency to greatly underestimate the potential of oral story-telling in agrarian societies, and to imagine a separation between written word and oral communication where in fact the two were deeply connected. See, for example, Azar Gat and Alexander Yakobson, Nations: The Long History and Deep Roots of Political Ethnicity and Nationalism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 12–13; Duara, Prasenjit, Rescuing History from the Nation: Questioning Narratives of Modern China (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 53–54. 50 The war reimagined generation after generation: this was more true in Korea and Japan than in China. As already observed, several celebratory histories appeared in Ming China (that we know of – there were probably more) but these seem to have died away after the Qing entered China proper from 1644. For further discussion of the role of literature in strengthening senses of identity in Korea and Japan, see Choi Kwan, Bunroku · keichō no eki: bungaku ni kizamareta sensō, e.g. 237–239.

References Atobe Makoto 跡部信. ‘Toyotomi seiken ki no taigai kankei to chitsujokan’ 豊臣政権期 の対外関係と秩序観 (Foreign Relations and View of the World Order during the Toyotomi Government Period). Nihon-shi kenkyū 日本史研究 585 (2011):56−82. Boot Willem. ‘ “Chōsen seibatsu ki” ni kakareta sensō’ 『朝鮮征伐記』に描かれた戦 争 (The War Depicted in Chōsen Seibatsu Ki). In Jinshin sensō: 16-seiki Nit-Chō-Chū no kokusai sensō 壬辰戦争 :16世紀日 · 朝 · 中の国際戦争, edited by Chŏng Tu- hŭi 鄭 杜煕 and Yi Kyŏngsun 李璟珣, translated by Obata Michihiro 小幡倫裕. Tokyo: Akashi shoten 明石書店. 2008. Bourke, Joanna. ‘Introduction: “Remembering” War’. Journal of Contemporary History 39, no. 4 (2004): 473–485. Choi Kwan 崔官. Bunroku · keichō no eki: bungaku ni kizamareta sensō 文禄 · 慶長の役 〔壬辰 · 丁酉倭乱〕: 文学に刻まれた戦争 (The Bunroku- Keichō Expeditions (Imjin/Chŏngyu Waeran): A War Engraved in Literature). Tokyo: Kōdansha 講談 社. 1994. Duara, Prasenjit. Rescuing History from the Nation: Questioning Narratives of Modern China. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 2007. Elisonas, Jurgis. ‘The Inseparable Trinity: Japan’s Relations with China and Korea’. In The Cambridge History of Japan, edited by John Whitney Hall and James L. McClain, 4:235–300. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 1991. Gat, Azar, and Alexander Yakobson. Nations: The Long History and Deep Roots of Political Ethnicity and Nationalism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 2013. ter Haar, Barend J. Guan Yu: The Religious Afterlife of a Failed Hero. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 2017. Haboush, Jahyun Kim. ‘Dead Bodies in the Postwar Discourse of Identity in Seventeenth Century Korea: Subversion and Literary Production in the Private Sector’. The Journal of Asian Studies 62, no. 2 (2003):415–442.

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Haboush, Jahyun Kim. The Great East Asian War and the Birth of the Korean Nation.

Edited by William J. Haboush and Jisoo Kim. Columbia University Press. 2016. Haboush, Jahyun Kim and Kenneth R. Robinson. A Korean War Captive in Japan, 1597–1600: The Writings of Kang Hang. New York: Columbia University Press. 2013. Hawley, Samuel Jay. The Imjin War: Japan’s Sixteenth-Century Invasion of Korea and Attempt to Conquer China. n.d.: Conquistador Press. 2014. Hsia, Ronnie Po- chia. Matteo Ricci and the Catholic Mission to China, 1583–1610: A Short History with Documents. Cambridge: Hackett Publishing Company. 2016. Kawaguchi Chōju 川口長孺. ‘Sei Kan i ryaku’ 征韓偉略. In Renchen zhi yi shiliao huiji 壬辰之役史料匯集, Vol. 2. Chaoxian shiliao congbian 朝鮮史料叢編. Beijing: Quanguo tushuguan wenxian suowei fuzhi zhongxin 全國圖書館文獻縮微複製中 心. 1990. Li Linglong 李玲珑. ‘Yuan dai Guan Yu chongbai yu Yuan zaju zhong de Guan Yu xingxiang’ 元代关羽崇拜与元杂剧中的关羽形象 (Worship of Guan Yu in the Yuan Dynasty and the Image of Guan Yu in Yuan Plays). Qinghai shifan daxue minzu shifan xueyuan xuebao 青海师范大学民族师范学院学报 17, no. 1 (2006):34–37. Li Madou 利玛窦 (Ricci, Matteo), and Jin Nige 金尼阁 (Nicolas Trigault). Li Madou Zhongguo zhaji 利玛窦中国札记 (De Christiana Expeditione apud Sinas). Translated by He Gaoji 何高济. 2 vols. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju 中华书局. 1983. Liu Haiyan 刘海燕. ‘Guan Yu xingxiang yu Guan Yu chongbai de chuanbo yu jieshou’ 关羽形象与关羽崇拜的传播与接受 (Spread and Acceptance of the Image and Worship of Guan Yu). Nankai xuebao 南开学报 1 (2006):74–79. Mao Ruizheng 茅瑞徵. ‘Wanli san da zheng kao’ 萬曆三大征考 (Study of the Three Great Campaigns of the Wanli Era), n.d. SB/916.85/4426. Peking University Library. McDermott, Joseph. ‘The Ascendance of the Imprint in China’. In Printing and Book Culture in Late Imperial China, edited by Cynthia J. Brokaw, 55–104. Studies on China 27. Berkeley: University of California Press. 2006. Naitō Shunpo 内藤雋輔. Bunroku-Keichō no eki ni okeru hirojin no kenkyū 文禄 慶長の 役における被擄人の研究 (Research on Abductees in the Bunroku- Keichō Cam­ paign). Tokyo: Tōkyō daigaku 東京大学. 1976. Oh Hŭimun. ‘Swaemi rok’ 鎻尾錄 (Record of a Refugee), n.d. Jangseogak Royal Archives. http://yoksa.aks.ac.kr. Shimazu Hisamichi 島津久通, ‘Sei Kan roku’ 征韓錄 n.d., 天の部 248 番 1713. Kagoshima University Tamasato Archive 鹿児島大学玉里文庫. Sin Kyŏng 申炅. Chaejo pŏnbang chi 再造藩邦志 (Salvation of a Vassal State). Vol. 7. Taedong yasŭng 大東野乘. Kyŏngsŏng [Seoul]: Chosŏn kosŏ kanhaenghoe 朝鮮古書 刊行會. 1910. ‘Sŏnjo sillok’ 宣祖實錄 (Annals of the Sŏnjo Reign), n.d. National Institute of Korean History. http://sillok.history.go.kr. Swope, Kenneth. A Dragon’s Head and a Serpent’s Tail: Ming China and the First Great East Asian War, 1592–1598. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. 2009. Xu Xizhen. ‘Dong zheng ji’ 東征記 (Record of the Eastern Expedition). n.d. KJ 奎中 5249. Kyujanggak. Seoul National University. Yang, Shao- yun. ‘ “What Do Barbarians Know of Gratitude?” – The Stereotype of Barbarian Perfidy and Its Uses in Tang Foreign Policy Rhetoric’. Tang Studies 31 (2013):28–74. Zhao Shizhen 趙士禎. ‘Bei bian tuntian chechong yi’ 備邊屯田車銃議 (Deliberation on Border Defense, Military Farms, and Mounted Cannon). In Yi hai zhu chen 藝海珠塵, edited by Wu Xinglan, Vol. 35:2. Taibei: Yinwen yinshuguan 藝文印書館. 1965.

Post war: stories retold, countries reimagined 165 Zhao Shizhen. ‘Dong shi sheng yan’ 東事剩言 (Surplus Words on the Eastern Business). 5414. n.d.: Kyujanggak. Seoul National University. Zhao Shizhen. Shen qi pu 神器譜 (Catalogue of Wondrous Devices). Taibei: Guoli zhongyang tushuguan 國立中央圖書館. 1981. Zhao Shizhen. ‘Wo qing tuntian yi’ 倭情屯田議 (Deliberation on the Japanese Situation and Military Farms). In Yi hai zhu chen 藝海珠塵, edited by Wu Xinglan, Vol. 35:2. Taibei: Yinwen yinshuguan 藝文印書館. 1965. Zhuge Yuansheng 諸葛元聲. Liang chao ping rang lu 兩朝平攘錄 (Quelling Unrest in Two Reigns). Edited by Zhongguo yeshi jicheng bianweihui. Vol. 27. Zhongguo yeshi jicheng 中國野史集成. Chengdu: Bashu shushe 巴蜀書社. 1993.

Epilogue The war of 1592–1598 and national identity

We have observed in the preceding chapters evidence of pervasive and developed senses of identity centred around China, Korea, and Japan, which were integral to how people of the time saw the war of 1592–1598. How should we understand these identities in the longer history of thinking about states and communities? Several scholars have postulated that what we see in East Asia at this time, or in the centuries before and after, can be described as ‘national’ iden­ tity. Jahyun Kim Haboush investigated national identity in relation to the war specifically, and is not the only scholar to have raised the question in relation to Korea.1 Mary E. Berry made the case for the existence of national identity in Japan immediately after the war, in the Edo period (1603–1868).2 Nicolas Tackett proposes that the birth of Chinese ‘nationalism’ should be situated as early as the Song dynasty (960–1279).3 Prasenjit Duara has made a wider case against exclusively privileging the modern period in thinking about national con­ sciousness. Gat, Yakobson, and others have further argued that the developed senses of identity in China, Korea, and Japan are to be properly understood as part of a long history of national thinking, evidenced not just in East Asia but around the world.4 The applicability of the term ‘nation’ in East Asia before the nineteenth century remains contentious, yet Haboush and other scholars have not resiled from the debate because, in the absence of adequate alternative terminology, it is difficult to situate the identities we observe in relation to wider discussions on identity without at least engaging with theories of the development of national identity.5 To speak of ethnic or cultural identities, for example, would be wholly inadequate, failing to capture the political and institutional aspects. Furthermore, in so far as they were communities imagined around polities, Chinese, Korean, and Japanese identities inescapably shared many elements of national identities, even if they can be said to have diverged in crucial respects. As such, whether or not we ultimately determine the label ‘national’ to be appropriate, exploring the points of similitude and divergence between identities in the war of 1592–1598 and conceptions of the ‘nation’ is important if we are to understand their place in the broader evolution of collective iden­ tity in East Asian and world history.

The war of 1592–1598 and national identity 167

Defining the ‘nation’ Debate on the ‘nation’ and what it signifies has spawned a vast literature, but it will suffice to draw out a few key themes as context for the discussion here. At the core of the idea of national identity is what Ernest Gellner defined as a con­ gruence of ethnic or cultural identity (he used both terms) and the polity.6 Impor­ tantly, this ethnic or cultural identity is envisioned as a community, usually imagined to extend back to a distant origin in history.7 While ‘modernists’ argued that such notions of community were entirely modern, Anthony Smith and others saw the nation as having roots in earlier history. Smith noted that col­ lective cultural identity did not require culture to actually have been uniform through time, but that there was perceived to be continuity: some sense of it being the ‘same’ culture.8 The core of the controversy over ‘when’ national identity first emerged arises not from a broad definition such as that given above, but because for modernist scholars the ‘nation’ is inseparable from its nineteenth-century sense of a polit­ ical community including all classes.9 Medieval historians have argued that while previously a large proportion of the ‘nation’ was never considered to have direct political participation in the nation’s fate, during the nineteenth century and afterwards, the ideas inaugurated in the French Revolution came to be seen as integral to the nation: popular sovereignty and equal citizenship were seen as prerequisite to true national community.10 Given this process of historical devel­ opment, there is an argument for recognizing the political ideas of popular sover­ eignty and equal citizenship as separate developments in themselves.11 As well as these changes in political ideas, modernist theorists of nationalism emphasized the new mass participation that came with the shift to industrialized societies and the rapid communication enabled by print capitalism, defining national consciousness as inseparably bound up with these new experiences.12 The effects of industrialization were undoubtedly profound, but, as Duara has eloquently argued: ‘the empirical record does not furnish the basis for such a strong statement about the polarity between the modern and the premodern’.13 A fervour to deconstruct nationalist narratives as invented and ahistorical led to an over-emphasis on the break national community represented with the past; to act as a foil, agrarian societies were imagined to have been disconnected and local­ ized, save for a small clerisy and aristocracy which lived apart from the rest of the population.14 While this was a caricature of the past fit to a certain purpose, the insights of scholars of nationalism into the importance of communication and some breadth of participation in the formation of national identity remain valid. In the remainder of this chapter we will therefore consider mass participation and communication alongside the other aspects of national identity mentioned above (the relationship of cultural identity to the polity and what kind of com­ munity was imagined) in relation to the evidence of identity from the war. The objective is not to come to any general new conclusions on national identity or East Asian identity per se, but specifically to explore how identities from the war of 1592–1598 relate to the wider discussion of national identity.

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Culture as identity ‘The manner in which we view the world today – that is, divided between equal nations, each of which takes pride in its own cultural uniqueness – is perhaps inappropriate for viewing the world of the East Asian past.’ (Liam Kelley, Beyond the Bronze Pillars15) Turning first to the convergence of polity and cultural community, to what extent did our protagonists see China, Korea, and Japan as distinct cultural identities? On the one hand, we have seen a strong tendency towards universalizing notions of culture, rather than community-specific ones. On the other, there is undeni­ able evidence of people understanding a distinctive culture as belonging to a specific country. The idea that there was a universal standard in the cultural sphere, against which each country or people’s attainment is measured, is most evident in the Chinese and Korean accounts of Chosŏn’s standing in the world. This recalls Liam Kelley’s findings in his study of Vietnam, where he points to a universalist notion of ‘civility’, which each country could manifest (or not).16 Just as for Vietnamese literati, Chosŏn’s equal attainment with China to a universal notion of ‘civility’ was a point of great pride for the country’s elite. The Sino-Korean descriptions of the Wo/Wae (i.e. Japanese) and Japan as savage or barbarous represent the other side of the same coin: depicting the Japanese as failing to manifest civility.17 Such universalist notions were not exclusive to the continent, either. Japanese Buddhist perspectives (most overt in Keinen’s writing but also a background influence in Yoshino and other samurais’ writing) similarly judged all lands and peoples by their attainment in terms of universal Buddhist know­ ledge and wisdom.18 Alongside these universalist notions of civility and knowledge, however, we have seen many instances of distinctive culture cast as the proprietary property of one country or another. While the elite in Vietnam and Chosŏn preferred to think in terms of universal civility, in Ming Chinese sources we see clear expres­ sions of cultural ownership of the very same body of high culture. Thus, Xu Yihou wrote of Chinese characters in Japan as ‘our Great Ming letters’.19 Whether it was literati writing in the Ming heartland or Xu Yihou exiled in Japan, there was no ambiguity for Chinese writers as to which country had ownership of the Chinese script or literature. For them, while the elite of Chosŏn or Vietnam might be judged by the same standards, these standards were unam­ biguously Chinese ones. In the unequal power relations between Ming China and its closest tributaries, it benefited one side more than the other to emphasize the universal nature of civility.20 Even on the Chosŏn side, the universalist picture in literary works is compli­ cated by the practical experience of the war. The Classical Chinese introduction of Chosŏn we saw in Chapter 6, Chaoxian ji 朝鮮記, exemplifies a description of Chosŏn devoid of any cultural element that would appear alien to the Chinese audience for which it was intended.21 This was the preferred self-positioning of

The war of 1592–1598 and national identity 169 the Chosŏn literati. Yet, the wartime cross-border interaction with the Japanese reveals a different picture. Faced with stark differences and a cultural threat, even the literati began to discuss distinctively Korean cultural markers. When travelling to Japan, the Chosŏn ambassador Hwang Shin not only contrasted Japanese and Chosŏn customs, but lamented that the Chosŏn subjects in Japan were forgetting Korean, the language of ‘our country’.22 This resonates with Haboush’s observation that the Korean language attained new significance during the war, both as a Korean-only space and a site of active contestation with the Japanese, who promoted Japanese language and custom in occupied territories.23 While literati sought to present Chosŏn as the embodiment of NeoConfucian ideals when writing about the country’s place in the world, we must recognize that this universalist vision was always aspirational.24 The lived context of the war, meanwhile, gave renewed importance to elements of a dis­ tinct Korean cultural identity. Buddhist visions of the world notwithstanding, we see examples of an overt and potent sense of distinct Japanese culture during the war. This is nowhere more evident than in the attempts to forcibly export Japanese culture by insisting residents in captured Chosŏn territory follow Japanese customs.25 The invading forces were acting on the orders of Hideyoshi, someone who, in another context, had even displayed a sense of cultural relativism in the religious realm, when he effectively told missionaries that they should keep the god of their country and the Japanese would keep theirs.26 The writings of those tasked with implement­ ing Hideyoshi’s policies similarly assumed that the Japanese cultural realm should be coterminous with the extent of the Japanese state.27 With the immensity of continental civilization on their doorstep, the Japanese could not mirror the Chinese in imagining their culture to be the one true defini­ tion of civility, as it was impossible to escape Chinese culture as a point of refer­ ence; nor had Neo-Confucian universalist ideas taken hold in the more geographically removed Japan as they had in Chosŏn. Of the three countries, the position of Japan was perhaps most conducive to seeing culture as entirely rel­ ative, and Japanese culture as synonymous with a distinct identity. Both universal and country-specific notions of culture evidently co-existed, though to differing extents in each country. That these competing universalist and ethnic conceptions of culture co-existed is important in the context of national identity because, while the former runs counter to the ethno-nationalist conception of every nation possessing a unique culture, the latter is fully consist­ ent with it.28 At the same time, we should note that as even the universalist rhetoric deployed by Chosŏn literati was used to argue for Chosŏn’s unique posi­ tion in the world (as the most civilized of vassal states), it was functionally very similar to an argument of unique cultural identity.29

Imagined communities Benedict Anderson’s famous description of nations as ‘imagined communities’ poetically captures two key aspects of the nation: its invocation of a community,

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and the artificial or constructed nature of that community, which claims unity and continuity in spite of historical discontinuity and diversity.30 Both aspects can be seen in the Chinese, Korean, and Japanese identities from the war, but it is worth reflecting on the nature of the communities being imagined. The stories that contemporary sources told about Ming China, Chosŏn Korea, and Japan under Hideyoshi share with later national narratives their imagination of the current polity as stretching back through time, constant in essence and untroubled by diversity. With the stroke of a brush they obliviated shifting borders and ethnicities, and claimed for the present polity the cultural achieve­ ments and territorial gains of ancient kingdoms. Thus, the Ming inherited owner­ ship of Chinese civilization, Chosŏn subsumed the diverse kingdoms on the peninsula that had preceded it, and Hideyoshi’s Japan was the same Japan that had ‘conquered’ the Korean peninsula a millennium before and repulsed a Mongol invasion centuries later.31 Another distinctive aspect of all the narratives around China, Korea, and Japan was that they generally centred not on the people but on the state, or its territory. That is to say, we do not see claims to a common ancestry or other common inception as a people, for example. In the samurai Yoshino’s depiction of the ‘Land of the Gods’, it was from the land of Japan’s status that the warriors born there gained their ferocity: it was not by lineage or some formative experi­ ence of the people of Japan.32 The exhortations of Chosŏn volunteer command­ ers echoed this apparent emphasis of soil over blood, one letter explicitly claiming that it was from the soil of Chosŏn that its people obtained their blood.33 We can imagine how conceiving of the community in this way was more natural for the noble authors of these letters in Chosŏn: not only was it the land that needed to be held against the enemy, but emphasizing an ancestral bond with their slaves may also have been an awkward proposition. In the Chinese texts, from Xu Yihou in Japan to Xu Xizhen in the Chinese heartland, any need for some common origin or uniting force was seemingly obviated by the presence of the great Ming state, which sat unchallenged in its claim to embody China, politically, territorially, and culturally.34 The significance of the community being defined by the extent of the state, rather than the state embodying a community that preceded it, is best demonstrated by contrast. Susan Reynolds cites the Scottish letter to the papacy of 1320, known as the Declaration of Arbroath, as an eloquent portrayal of a polity embodying a pre-existing ethnic community. Despite a reality of mixed cultural groups, the letter claimed that the Scots were one people who had moved from the Mediterranean before settling in Scotland, and had a right to political self-determination.35 The Scottish case was not an isolated example: in the Western European context, it appears to have been the idea of a community of common ancestry and law that appeared first, with the idea of a people embodied in a kingdom gradually develop­ ing afterwards.36 While any meaningful comparison with Europe would require a study in itself, this example serves as a foil to highlight how Chinese, Korean, and Japanese writers from 1592 to 1598 portrayed their respective countries not as peoples of common origin but as polities from their ancient conception.37

The war of 1592–1598 and national identity 171 We should note that this general focus on the state and territory did not imagine a world solely defined in those terms: the conception of other groups could be quite different. Chinese and Korean accounts frequently discussed the Japanese in terms of a stateless people, helped by the existence of the de facto ethnonym for the Japanese, Wo 倭 (K. Wae). The Jurchen in the north (who would soon form the Qing dynasty) were also depicted as belonging to this cat­ egory, as an ethnically distinct group. It is important to distinguish this ‘othering’ of foreign peoples from the concept of self-identifying as a political community, however. As Leo Shin has shown in his study of Ming thinking on the hua vs. yi 華夷 (Chinese/non-Chinese, or civilized/barbarian) distinction, an influential notion was that the hua ‘mixed with and assimilated to one another’ (混而同) while the yi had retained great variety (i.e. cultural diversity).38 In such a concep­ tion, the hua category (with which, incidentally, Chosŏn literati also selfidentified) was not originally necessarily one people, of common custom or ancestry, but came to share a common civility. Hobsbawm discussed this aware­ ness of only other groups’ traits, while overlooking one’s own group’s diversity, as ‘negative ethnicity’.39 Thinking in this way did not require that the Chinese or Koreans necessarily viewed themselves as ethnic groups. In this context, we must bear in mind that precisely because the sources from the war do not frame communities in terms of genealogical groups, or link blood to culture, we cannot make definitive statements about what the authors in ques­ tion thought on the subject. What we can say is that they did not consider those ideas salient, and presented sophisticated visions of their communities based on state, land, culture, and their history.40

Mass participation The third main facet of national identity that we will consider here is mass parti­ cipation and communication: the extent to which the wider population was included and participated in the ‘nation’. Here it is important to distinguish between three questions: whether the community was imagined to include the whole population, whether all members were equal participants, and whether the wider population shared this sense of community.41 Evidence of mass participation and ideas of popular sovereignty were central to Haboush’s case for the war representing the birth of a Korean nation.42 A key development Haboush cited as a moment of ‘nationalization’ was the circulation of Calls to Arms in 1592–1593 by civilians opening up a ‘communicative space’.43 While the growing sense of a people of Chosŏn in the diarist Oh Hŭimun’s writing implied mass inclusion (i.e. not excluding certain classes), the Calls to Arms went further, demanding from every (male) member of the popu­ lation participation in the fight to defend Chosŏn. Oh copied out some of these open letters from volunteer commanders, which called on their fellow countrymen to rise up and fight.44 In doing so, they invoked a collective responsibility for defence of the land, people, and their way of life. The effective collapse of the state in 1592 (and for several years

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afterwards in the occupied areas) encouraged members of the scholar-official class to put into action their developed doctrine of loyalty to king and country. Out of necessity, they called on as many of their countrymen as they could to join them. With neither the carrots nor the sticks of the state to aid them, they relied on rhetorical appeals to duty (as well as enlightened self-interest). Haboush showed how, by at least one author of these letters, even the lowliest slave was explicitly attributed with a sense of patriotic duty.45 Patriotic duty was largely discussed in terms of loyalty, which Haboush argued was re-interpreted as a call to independent action in the new context of the invasion.46 More than simply calls for all to be loyal subjects of the crown, these letters promoted a certain sense of popular ownership of Chosŏn: when the state failed, it fell to the people to defend the land. In demanding patriotic action from every man, the language of the Calls to Arms was not completely new or peculiar to Chosŏn. The acts of patriotism of Xu Yihou, the Chinese volunteer spy in Japan, are at least as daring as those of the volunteer commanders in Chosŏn, and represented putting into action what they laid out in words.47 While Xu was one of only a few Chinese men in Satsuma to actually take action, it is also clear that he felt his fellow countrymen in Japan all shared an implicit patriotic duty by virtue of being Chinese.48 Both Xu and his Chosŏn counterparts shared as context for their patriotism and antibarbarian rhetoric the examples of Song-dynasty (960–1279) scholar-officials taking up arms to defend their country. Song-dynasty loyalists had also imagined their fight in terms of defending the civility that China represented from falling to barbarian hordes.49 For Zhao Shizhen, whom we met in the previous chapter, it was a matter of course that even after the Song dynasty fell to the Mongols, the wider populace remained loyal to the Song.50 With Song precedent before them, it seems the general idea of patriotic duty applying to the wider populace was a natural one in the Ming and Chosŏn. What is less clear, is the extent to which literati believed the lowest classes were capable of comprehending their duty to their country. Neither Xu Yihou nor the majority of Chosŏn sources seem to have supposed that they could.51 The example of the Call to Arms asserting that a slave might feel the call to loyal and patriotic action appears exceptional. It may represent the beginnings of a move­ ment towards a fuller expectation of participation, born in the 1592 moment of crisis, but which would grow after the war as popular Chosŏn tales increasingly included lowly figures.52 If, rather than focusing on expressions of the populace having shared respons­ ibility or ownership, we consider mass participation in a broader sense, then the point of greatest significance is perhaps that already discussed in the previous chapter: that the sources demonstrate how the war of 1592–1598 made belong­ ing to China, Korea, or Japan relevant for everyone either involved in or hearing about the war, regardless of class. That even the Japanese monk Keinen, who despised the samurai and ignored their victories, finally came to identify with Japan and its fate at the climax of the battle of Ulsan is but the most poignant example.53 We have also seen how ideas and news moved fast and wide during

The war of 1592–1598 and national identity 173 the war, between both written and spoken word: Xu Yihou’s report from Satsuma was on the lips of officials in North China within weeks; rumours of Ming betrayal or Japanese duplicity spread like wildfire in Chosŏn. Thus, we have seen how print, manuscript, letter, word of mouth, and monument were all part of the complex tapestry of communication through which people experi­ enced their country at war.54 The picture the empirical record paints of popula­ tions connected and interacting, alive to news and debate, puts paid to any notion that society at this time was too disconnected for people to imagine a common past, present, and future.55 At the same time, we must recognize the inherent limitations of our sources, which point to the experience of the wider illiterate populace but cannot return voices to them; of that rich tapestry of communication, we can gain only a glimpse. Thus, while we know the population was connected and can infer the relevance of identity, we have extremely limited evidence for what that identity meant to them. As identifying with one country or another does not necessarily equate to a sense of a community of shared obligations or shared culture, we must not assume that the wider populace imagined their countries as com­ munities in the same way as our literate protagonists appear to have done.56 Thus, if one were to argue for national consciousness in the context of the sources from the war, it would be prudent not to extend it beyond the narrower sense employed by Tackett in his study of Song China, of a consciousness among the elite.57 As a footnote to our discussion of mass participation, and in the context of the voiceless, we can consider once more the power of the physical monument. In the previous chapter we saw how a Chinese shrine in the Chosŏn capital awed the local populace, but Haboush drew our attention to a potentially more powerful monument from the war: a shrine to the patriotic martyrs of Chinju 晉 州. From 1593 to 1908, the state commemorated all those who died in the defence and fall of Chinju, the city which valiantly stood alone against the 1592 invasion but whose inhabitants were massacred in retaliation the following year.58 The potency of this symbol lay in the fact that the commemorations were not for named soldiers only, but even for the unidentified dead. This, then, is perhaps the first Tomb of the Unknown Soldier – except it is even more inclu­ sive, remembering civilians too. Believing such monuments to have no prece­ dents before the advent of nationalism, Anderson described the sites as ‘saturated with national imaginings’, potent symbols of the nation imbuing death with new meaning.59 The state ritual at Chinju meant that the dead no longer belonged only to their families or local community, but to Chosŏn. In their death, perhaps the image of a truly national community was born.60

To be or not to be a nation The evidence we have from the war of 1592–1598 points to people’s ideas of China, Korea, and Japan sharing core elements with ‘nations’, as they have often been conceived: imagined communities of converging cultural and political

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identity, sharing a common past, present, and future; not exclusive by class and relevant to a wide population, even demanding a degree of active participation. The war was clearly also a formative moment in this regard, particularly for people in Chosŏn.61 At the same time, the different emphases of the imagined communities and different significance of ‘mass participation’ reflect a historical context distinct from the ferment of early-modern Western Europe, seen as the definitive birthplace of the nation. We are therefore left, as ever, with the same dilemma: if we speak of ‘national’ identities in 1592–1598, we risk obscuring the nuance of the historical context, and conflating the ideas from the time of the war with ideas of the distinct historical tradition of Western thought;62 if we pro­ claim these identities around China, Korea, and Japan not to be ‘national’, we risk suggesting that they were somehow ‘proto-national’ or simply ‘less’ than national – not as potent and pervasive as they were.63 It is a question of whether it is more important to emphasize similarity, by expanding the usage of the term ‘nation’ to encompass new historical contexts, recognizing its ‘protean’ nature, as Berry has suggested, or whether it is prudent to emphasize difference.64 It is certainly beyond this small study to solve such a difficult dilemma, nor was that the purpose here. A solution would require either entirely new terminol­ ogy, or for the consensus to shift to accept a more flexible definition of the ‘nation’. Without either change, scholars either do not have adequate terms with which to build links across time and space, or must appropriate the term ‘nation’, only for the ensuing debate to focus on semantics rather than substance: on whether the example in question fulfils all the criteria of the Euro-centric, mod­ ernist definition of ‘nation’. The fact that other examples are inevitably not ident­ ical to the European ones then distracts from what we can learn from the great deal of commonality that is found.65 The European experience undoubtedly went on to be historically influential, but from a longer perspective it is ultimately an arbitrary point of reference. Moreover, a black-and-white debate over classifica­ tion is unproductive when inevitably the world is shades of grey. It must be for another study, synthesizing findings from a much broader evidence base, to offer a way forward by conceiving of a more holistic theory of state-centred identity formation that takes into account the longer span of history and examples from around the world. In the meantime, a revealing thought experiment is to reverse the question of definition: what might the theory of ‘national’ identity look like had East Asia in 1600, rather than Western Europe, been the primary point of reference?66 If East Asian history was the starting point, China, Korea, and Japan would certainly not be ‘rare examples’,67 but rather prototypes. Instead of arguing that new ‘arbitrary historical inventions’ were suddenly created in the nineteenth century out of ‘cultural shreds and patches’,68 theorists might think in terms of estab­ lished identities evolving over time in response to changing circumstances, and consider how those identities moved from having minority to mass relevance. Scholars would probably argue that crucial to fostering cohesive national com­ munity was centuries of centralizing institutions such as examinations and conscription, state-centred histories, a shared literary space rich in memory, and,

The war of 1592–1598 and national identity 175 most pertinently here: foreign invasions as galvanizing moments.69 In other words, the component elements would not be alien, but the emphases and assumptions about continuity would be radically different. The limits of definition Ultimately, whether we classify identities during the war as national or other­ wise, the classification is a device for our benefit; it exists in our perception rather than in the empirical record. While we might decide that the emerging of a stronger sense of ‘the Chosŏn people’ during the war was a nascent sense of nation, for example, this crossing of a classificatory boundary holds significance only for us. There is no evidence that Oh Hŭimun or the literati writing open letters believed they were describing Chosŏn or its people in a new way.70 The utility of classification is to aid us in considering similitude and dissimilitude across time and space. Considerations of the development of identity in East Asia over the long term, or comparative studies in world history, may therefore come to different conclusions on how to define the evidence from the war studied here. When seeking to classify and define, we must also remember that identity is never fixed or mono-faceted, but necessarily exists as overlapping and layered ideas and sentiments. Which elements of identity come into focus depends as much on the specific context of the moment as inherited tradition.71 The war of 1592–1598 was a war between states, and this must account to a large extent for the fact that identity coalesced most strongly in that formation. We have seen through the various accounts in this book that different elements of Chinese, Korean, and Japanese identities all co-existed. The emphasis on the state or country that we have observed should not be taken to preclude an apparently seamless shift to emphasize more ethnic senses of identity, focusing on blood as much as soil, for example. A more ethnic sense of Chineseness had been emphasized in the past, was emphasized in certain contexts around the time of the war, and would come to the fore again as people responded to changing circumstances.72 At the turn of the seventeenth century, a major change in circumstances was in fact just over the horizon. The relatively neat picture of China, Korea, and Japan painted by those who lived through the war of 1592–1598 would be funda­ mentally upset by the rise of the Jurchen/Manchus and their conquest of ‘China’, when they supplanted the Ming empire with a Qing one. Where the notions of civility, the Ming state, and China had all been happily imagined as synonymous, now there was dissonance: the mantle of Chinese state and civilization had been usurped by ‘barbarians’. This momentous perceived change would not only provoke soul-searching and a hardening of ethnic identity in China, but also prompted the elite in Korea and Japan to reimagine their countries’ roles in the world. As the world changed in the years to come, people in all three countries would think more, and not less, about who they were and to which community they belonged.

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Notes 1 Regarding Haboush’s work, see the discussion below. Other examples include: John Duncan, ‘Proto-Nationalism in Premodern Korea’, in Perspectives on Korea, ed. Sang Oak Lee and Duk-Soo Park (Sydney: Wild Peony, 1998 г.), 198–221; Michael C. Rogers, ‘National Consciousness in Medieval Korea: The Impact of Liao and Chin on Koryŏ’, in China among Equals, ed. Morris Rossabi (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1983 г.), 151–172. 2 Berry argues that the 1600s saw a significant departure from previous imagining of Japan. Mary Elizabeth Berry, Japan in Print: Information and Nation in the Early Modern Period (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2006). 3 Nicolas Tackett, The Origins of the Chinese Nation. Song China and the Forging of an East Asian World Order (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017). 4 Prasenjit Duara, Rescuing History from the Nation: Questioning Narratives of Modern China (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007), esp. 51–56; Azar Gat and Alex­ ander Yakobson, Nations: The Long History and Deep Roots of Political Ethnicity and Nationalism. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013). 5 Haboush long pointed to the need to constructively engage the national question in the context of the war of 1592–1598 and the inadequacy of alternative terminology. Her contribution to this debate informs the discussion below. See, for example: Jahyun Kim Haboush. ‘Dead Bodies in the Postwar Discourse of Identity in Seventeenth-Century Korea: Subversion and Literary Production in the Private Sector’. The Journal of Asian Studies 62, no. 2 (2003):415–442. 6 Ernest Gellner, “From Kinship to Ethnicity,” in Encounters with Nationalism (Oxford: Blackwell, 1994), 34–46, cited in Gat and Yakobson, Nations, 6. 7 See, for example: Benedict R. O’G Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, Rev. ed. (London: Verso, 1991); Anthony D. Smith, National Identity (London: Penguin Books, 1991), e.g. 6–7. 8 Smith, National Identity, 25–33. 9 This is evident in the definitions of the nation offered by its most prominent theorists. Gellner, for example, places the following condition on nationhood: ‘A mere category of persons […] becomes a nation if and when the members of the category firmly recognise certain mutual rights and duties to each other in virtue of their shared mem­ bership of it.’ (Emphasis added.) Implicit in this are ideas related to citizenship, of the sort inaugurated in the French Revolution. Anderson defines the nation as sovereign, explicitly because he sees the concept being born in the age of the ‘Enlightenment and Revolution’. Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, New Perspectives on the Past (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1983), 7; Anderson, Imagined Communities, 6–7. See also discussion in: Susan Reynolds, Kingdoms and Communities in Western Europe, 900–1300 (Oxford: Clarendon Press , 1984), 254; Gat and Yakobson, Nations, 9–11. 10 In the medieval European context, although not all people in a realm were considered to have or need direct political representation, that did not imply that they were excluded from the community. Reynolds, Kingdoms and Communities, 250–251. 11 The counter-argument is that these later notions of political community have become too strongly associated with nationhood to disentangle, so applying the term ‘nation’ would be misleading in contexts where equal citizenship and popular sovereignty were not relevant concepts. The problem of definition and redefinition is touched on again near the end of this chapter. 12 Gellner demands that the homogenized cultural and linguistic high culture that forms the central space in which the nation is imagined must be a mass phenomenon and not confined to a small elite. Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, e.g. 55. See also Gat and Yakobson, Nations, 9. This view leaves unresolved the key question of what is ‘mass’ and what is a ‘small’ elite. The distinction is clear in Gellner’s drastically simplified

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20

21 22 23

24

dichotomy of agrarian and industrial societies, but less so in the context of China, Korea, and Japan, where print and literacy gradually expanded over time. Duara, Rescuing History from the Nation, 53–54. In fact, the divide between modern­ ist and traditionalist (such as Smith) positions is often over-stated: key modernists such as Hans Kohn, Eric Hobsbawm, and Ernest Gellner all accepted similar modes of identity existed earlier in history. Hobsbawm described these as ‘proto-national’. The difference is that modernists placed great emphasis on modern ideas being unprecedently intense and consistent. It is in this context that Haboush argues that remembrance of the 1592–1598 war fostered national identity due to the unpreced­ ented intensity and persistence of national narrative and imagery. As the focus of this book is on the war itself rather than evidence from subsequent centuries, further investigation of the war’s legacy must await other studies. Gat and Yakobson, Nations, 8–9; JaHyun Kim Haboush, The Great East Asian War and the Birth of the Korean Nation, ed. William J. Haboush and Jisoo Kim (Columbia University Press, 2016), e.g. 13–14. For example, see Gellner’s depiction of agrarian society: Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, 8–18, 39. For a critique of the modernist emphasis on discontinuity: Gat and Yakobson, Nations, 1–13. The horrors that nationalism visited upon the world in the twentieth century was undoubtedly the backdrop to the dominant theories of national­ ism that have emerged. Some scholars of national identity have been very explicit about the politically activist role they see it as their duty to play: to undermine the national myths that lead to bloodshed in the present day by presenting historical com­ plexity. See, for example: Geary, Patrick J., The Myth of Nations : The Medieval Origins of Europe (Princeton, N.J.; Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2003), 1–14. Liam C. Kelley, Beyond the Bronze Pillars: Envoy Poetry and the Sino-Vietnamese Relationship (Honolulu, T.H.: University of Hawai’i Press, 2005), 28. Kelley, Beyond the Bronze Pillars, e.g. 32. See the discussion of the Chosŏn ambassadors’ accounts of Japan in Chapter 4. See the discussion of Buddhist worldviews in Chapter 2 and of Keinen’s worldview in Chapter 5. 「我大明文字」. Xu’s report (discussed in Chapter 1) can be found in Hou Jigao 侯 繼高, ‘Quan Zhe bing zhi kao’ 全浙兵制考 (Military System of the Entire Zhe Region) n.d., National Archives of Japan (www.digital.archives.go.jp), 史 198–214, 巻二附録「近報倭警」. In relation to these competing visions of universal civility and proprietary culture, we can reconsider the term translated in Chapter 6 as ‘Little China’: xiao Zhonghua 小中 華. While there it appeared in the Chinese text circulated in Chosŏn, Chaoxian ji, it was also used in Chosŏn texts (K. so Chunghwa/chunghwa). Haboush translated the term’s use in a Chosŏn text very differently, as ‘Small Brilliant Center’. Both trans­ lations can be justified, but each reflects a different interpretation of the culture (or civility) which Ming China was seen to embody: as either universal or inherently ‘Chinese’. For Haboush’s translation see Haboush, The Great East Asian War, 49. Chaoxian ji is discussed in Chapter 6. See Chapter 4. Not only did the Korean vernacular script help to create a Korean-only space, but in a fascinating example of cultural contestation, King Sŏnjo ordered that signs be put up in the capital banning Japanese speech after the capital was recaptured from the Japanese. See Haboush, The Great East Asian War, 91, 93–120. We can think of Chosŏn’s position as ‘Small Brilliant Center’ to borrow Haboush’s term, or a land of ‘manifest civility’ to borrow Kelley’s, as being aspirational in the sense that it represented what Chosŏn literati wished and argued their country to be. That status had to be constantly asserted, demonstrated, and recognized by others in order to remain true, in a way that would not have been the case had they thought in terms of a uniquely ‘Chosŏn’ cultural identity. By contrast, in the absence of credible

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rivals to the claim of being ‘China’, for literati in the Ming, Chinese identity was not something they needed to strive towards or actively maintain. Whence came the Japanese desire to export Japanese culture through the invasion, and its relationship with Chinese universalist notions of culture, are questions worthy of further investigation. On Hideyoshi’s part it appears to be the cultural aspect of his ambition to unseat China and have Japan ruling from the centre of the world (expressed politically in moving the Emperor of Japan to the Chinese capital). Regarding Japanese policy in occupied territories, see Haboush, The Great East Asian War, 73–91; regarding Hideyoshi’s ambitions, see Takeda Mariko 武田万里子, ‘Toy­ otomi Hideyoshi no Ajia chiri ninshiki’ 臣秀吉のアジア地理認識 (Toyotomi Hidey­ oshi’s Geographical Conception of Asia), Kaiji-shi kenkyū 海事史研究 67 (2010). Atobe gives an example of one of Hideyoshi’s letters (drafted in his name): ‘If the priestly and lay people of our country were to enter [your] land, and by preaching the Way of the Spirits (shintō) put the people into confusion and disarray, then would the ruler of the country be pleased?’ (若本邦真俗入其地 説神道而惑乱人民 則国主可 歓悦乎). This idea that each sovereign realm had a distinct culture, and the close rela­ tionship of state and culture, continued to be expressed by the Tokugawa regime in the seventeenth century. See Atobe Makoto 跡部信, ‘Toyotomi seiken ki no taigai kankei to chitsujokan’ 豊臣政権期の対外関係と秩序観 (Foreign Relations and View of the World Order during the Toyotomi Government Period), Nihon-shi kenkyū 日本史研究 585 (2011): 56−82; Herman Ooms, Tokugawa Ideology: Early Constructs, 1570–1680 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985), esp. 45–50. An example can be seen in the writings of the monk Shukuro Toshitake 宿蘆俊岳, who was attached to Yoshikawa Hiroe’s 吉川廣家 (1561–1625) army. In a poem composed soon after occupying Kaesŏng, he wrote, ‘Japan and Chosŏn are ruled as one, let the people not lament the transplanting of the country’s customs …’ (日本朝 鮮一統治 黎民莫恨國風移 無私花柳吾王化 誰不生逢堯舜時). For a fuller discus­ sion of what could be termed colonial cultural policy, see Haboush, The Great East Asian War, esp. 73–119. Shukuro Toshitake 宿蘆俊岳, ‘Shukuro kō’ 宿蘆稿 (Shukuro Manuscript), in Zoku Gunsho ruijū 續群書類從, by Hanawa Hokiichi et al. 塙保己一, vol. 415, (National Archives of Japan: www.digital.archives.go.jp), 10a (image 11 of 24). In Haboush’s posthumously published study, the leitmotifs evoked in the Calls to Arms (letters of exhortation) are described as those of ethno-nationalism. (Haboush, The Great East Asian War, 51.) In the context of our discussion here, we should note that the cultural reference points these Neo-Confucian scholars gave were universalist. (This is in the same context in which the phrase ‘Small Brilliant Center’ is used – see Note 20.) Whether or not the ‘distinct culture’ element normally integral to ethno­ nationalism is present is a significant point, as moving to adopt an idea of exclusively Korean culture in response to ethno-nationalist ideas was a major development in elite thinking that was not fully realized until the twentieth century. It was the background to a fierce universalist vs. nationalist debate between Korean and Japanese scholars in 1915, for example. For discussion of elite universalist thinking in the later Chosŏn period, see Kim Yŏngmin, ‘Chosŏn chunghwajuŭi-ŭi chaegŏmt’o: ironjŏk chŏpkŭn’ (Reconsidering Sinocentrism In Late Choson Korea), Han’guksa hakhoe, 162 (2013.09): 211–252; regarding the 1915 debate, see Choi Chaemok and Yi Hyojin, ‘Chang Jiyŏn-gwa Takahashi Tōru-ŭi ‘chisang nonjeng’-e taehayŏ’, Ilbon munhwa yŏn’gu, no. 32 (2009): 515–548. The archetype of the ethno-nationalist worldview, where each people has a unique culture rather than sharing universal values, is expressed in Johann Gottfried von Herder’s (1704–1803) seminal work: Johann Gott­ fried von Herder, Reflections on the Philosophy of the History of Mankind, trans. Frank Edward Manuel (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968). In other words, while the presumptions of a universal civility run counter to the under­ pinning assertion of ethno-nationalism, that each nation possesses and should bring to

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full expression its own culture, universalism in no way diminishes the Chosŏn sense of identity, the cultural aspect of which was absolutely central. Anderson, Imagined Communities. This melding of past and present into a continuum are found across multiple sources; for just some examples, see: regarding China, Xu Yihou’s report in Chapter 1; regarding Chosŏn, discussion of Chaoxian ji in Chapter 6; regarding Japan, Yoshino’s account in Chapter 2 and the monk Genso’s comments in the Prologue. This is in contrast to other times and places when the idea of the Land of the Gods (or spirits) was linked to an idea of the population being descended from the spirits. See Chapter 2. Satō Hirō 佐藤弘夫, Kami · butsu · ōken no chūsei 神 · 仏 · 王権の中世 (The Middle Period: Spirits, Buddha, and Monarchy) (Kyoto: Hōzōkan 法藏館, 1998), 333. The language of the Calls to Arms positively imbued the land with the civility ima­ gined of Chosŏn, inseparably linking defence of the Chosŏn homeland with defence of that civility. (Haboush, The Great East Asian War, 41.) The Calls to Arms are also discussed in Chapter 3. Regarding Xu Yihou, see Chapter 1; for discussion of Xu Xizhen, see Chapter 7. Despite a reality of disunion, differing languages and descent, the declaration is notable for the belief in unity it expresses. Over decades of war with England, the Scots had varied arguments for independence, but common descent as a separate people was put forward as a key argument. Reynolds, Kingdoms and Communities, 274–276. Ibid. The idea of a people (gens) as a community of common custom, law, and descent appears to have been established in Western Europe at least by the tenth century, and evidence shows the idea of a people constituting a kingdom developing over the next couple of centuries. It should be noted that the findings of historians of medieval Europe regarding the development of identity differ substantially from how the pre-modern period has been characterized by modernist theorists of nationalism, who sought to downplay similarities with later nations. Reynolds, Kingdoms and Communities in Western Europe, 250–259; Gat and Yakobson, Nations, 1–8; HansWerner Goetz, Jorg Jarnut, and Walter Pohl, eds., Regna and Gentes: The Relationship Between Late Antique and Early Medieval Peoples and Kingdoms in the Transformation of the Roman World (Leiden; Boston: Brill Academic Publishers, 2003), 599; also Patrick Wadden, ‘Theories of National Identity in Early Medieval Ireland’ (DPhil, University of Oxford, 2011). This distinction is analogous to Anthony Smith’s distinction between ‘ethnic’ and ‘territorial’ nations, although he had in mind the much later examples of Britain and a new France. It is in this context that we should consider arguments such as that of Eric Hobsbawm, that China, Korea, and Japan were ‘among the extremely rare examples of historic states composed of a population that is ethnically almost or entirely homogeneous’, if we are not to confuse the causal relationship between statecentred identity and perceived ethnic boundaries. Smith, Anthony D., The Ethnic Origins of Nations (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1986), 134–145; Hobsbawm, E.J. (Eric J.), Nations and Nationalism since 1780: Programme, Myth, Reality, 2nd ed. (Cam­ bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 66. Shin was analysing the work of the influential thinker Qiu Jun 丘濬 (1421–1495). Leo Kwok-yueh Shin, The Making of the Chinese State: Ethnicity and Expansion on the Ming Borderlands (Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 160–165. Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism, 66. Elements of ethnicity in Chinese and Korean identities is a complex question (as indeed it is in the Japanese context). As argued in the final section ‘The Limits of Definition’, identity is context-specific and therefore a proper discussion of this aspect should keep as context other contemporaneous evidence, in addition to the more

180

41

42

43 44 45 46 47

48 49

50

The war of 1592–1598 and national identity

state-centred conflict of the 1592–1598 war. For example, the integration of Japanese defectors into Chosŏn society after the war could be a context in which the question of ethnicity was brought to the fore. Further relevant background to consider is the long historical discussion of culturalist vs. ethnic emphases in Chinese identity, and the crucial changes in the Song dynasty, which equally affected subsequent Chosŏn thinking. Regarding cultural and ethnic identities in the Song dynasty and before, see: Shao-yun Yang, The Way of the Barbarians: Redrawing Ethnic Boundaries in Tang and Song China (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2019); Tackett, The Origins of the Chinese Nation. In discussing the ‘mass’ relevance of national identity, the conception of the national community as including the entire population is often conflated with the extent ‘the masses’ actually participated, or related to the idea of the nation (i.e. what proportion of the population identified with the nation). While the historical reality is often inter­ linked, these should properly be seen as two distinct questions: one concerning the history of ideas, and the other the spread of those ideas. Tackett makes this distinction by explicitly focusing on ‘national consciousness’ among elite thinkers in the Song dynasty, for example, Tackett, The Origins of the Chinese Nation. As well as looking at sources from the war, Haboush considered the background of Chosŏn discussions of popular sovereignty prior to the war. These belong, of course, to an entirely distinct tradition from the ideas of popular sovereignty and equality of citizens developed by European thinkers such as Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–1788), which became deeply entangled with the notion of nationhood: they are part of a tra­ dition shared with China of thinking about the Mandate of Heaven and (in an abstract sense) the will of the people. Haboush, The Great East Asian War, 65–69. Haboush, The Great East Asian War, 70–71. In Haboush’s work these open letters, known as kyŏngmun 檄文 or t’ongmun 通文, are referred to as ‘letters of exhortation’. These letters are discussed in Chapter 3. Haboush, The Great East Asian War, 50. Haboush, The Great East Asian War, 70–71. Living as he was ‘behind enemy lines’ in Satsuma, Japan, Xu Yihou risked everything to warn the Ming of the looming invasion despite being under no pressure to do so. By contrast, Chosŏn literati were seeking to band together to defend their homes. Xu’s actions and motivations were discussed in Chapter 1. Xu felt the need to explain to the Ming government why the various other Chinese people in Satsuma would not help him. See discussion in Chapter 1. As discussed in Chapter 4, the Chosŏn elite’s definition of their own civility in opposition to barbarians was rooted in Neo-Confucian thought, built on the works of Southern Song scholars such as Zhu Xi 朱熹 (1130–1200). The echoes of Song rhet­ oric in the Calls to Arms was also noted in Chapter 3. Stories of patriotic heroes of the Southern Song, who defended their country and the civility it represented from the barbarians, in some cases on their own initiative, were immediate and potent examples for both Chosŏn and Chinese literati. Such stories also had a much wider appeal than those dedicated to Confucian self-cultivation, as the themes infused stories such as those of the Three Kingdoms (220–280) period, which enjoyed wide circulation in multiple formats at this time, in both China and Korea (see Chapters 6 and 7). Regarding increasingly ethnically-charged Song patriotism and its influence on popular stories, see Ge Zhaoguang, Here in ‘China’ I Dwell (Leiden, the Netherlands: Brill, 2017), 29–52; also, on Song patriotism, see Rolf Trauzettel, ‘Sung patriotism as a first step toward Chinese nationalism’, in Crisis and prosperity in Sung China, ed. John Winthrop Haeger (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1975 г.), 199–214. In the context of explaining that the Mongol invasions of Japan failed not due to Japanese military might but due to other factors, Zhao asserted that the former Song subjects the Mongols had conscripted not only did not apply themselves, but would

The war of 1592–1598 and national identity 181

51

52

53 54

55

56

57 58 59 60

61

62

delight in Mongol defeat: 「新募南人 又皆趙宋遺黎 既不為用 復懷幸敗之心」 Zhao Shizhen, ‘Dong shi sheng yan’ 東事剩言 (Surplus Words on the Eastern Busi­ ness). 5414. Kyujanggak. Seoul National University, 2a. Xu Yihou explained that the uneducated majority of the Chinese immigrant com­ munity in Satsuma were not able to help him because they did ‘not comprehend matters of state’ (不達國務). Xu’s report (discussed in Chapter 1) can be found in Hou Jigao 侯繼高, ‘Quan Zhe bing zhi kao’, 全浙兵制考 (Military System of the Entire Zhe Region), n.d. 史198–214, National Archives of Japan, 巻二附録「近報 倭警」. As noted at the end of Chapter 6, the stories of courtesans and other lowly characters in subsequent tales of the war represented a much more inclusive picture than Oh Hŭimun’s contemporary account, in which he only reported on the involvement of his fellow nobles, especially when thinking about virtuous acts. See discussion in Chapter 5. Throughout the book we have seen how letters, documents, reported conversations, and books all moved swiftly around the region. As discussed in Chapter 6, Oh Hŭimun’s diary shows how he used his full social network to remain connected to different parts of the country, and obtain the news and written word he records. This flow of information back and forth allowed people to learn about events as they unfolded, and understand how people in foreign lands viewed them and their country. Gellner and other modernists formed a contrast with industrial societies capable of nationalist consciousness by depicting agrarian societies as typically disconnected both horizontally (locality to locality) and vertically (by class). The purpose was to show that a common communicative space including the wider population could not emerge until later technological developments allowed it. Duara, Rescuing History from the Nation, 53–54; Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, 8–18. For example, we should be careful not to assume that an increased sense of common plight in Chosŏn was felt in the same way by people of differing social stations. How far the self-image of Chosŏn as a land of civility was relevant to those of the lower classes is also questionable. Tackett, The Origins of the Chinese Nation. Haboush, The Great East Asian War, 137–138. Anderson, Imagined Communities, 9. The reader may recall that the story of the courtesan martyr Non’gae 論介 was also from Chinju, and similarly represented the participation of all parts of society (see final section of Chapter 6). Here we may say the ‘image’ of a national community because, to comply with the full modernist definition, all members of the community must accept and identify with it, recognizing their fellow members as such. (Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, 7.) The state ritual sent a clear signal, but what the popula­ tion made of that signal is less clear. Chosŏn was unarguably the most affected, as almost its entire population had direct experience of the war. While only part of the Japanese population was directly affected, the Japanese sources left to us point to a deep psychological impact on those who took part. Large-scale mobilization and logistical efforts, as well as Korean immigration, also widened the experience of the war beyond those who crossed the sea. In China, the shock following early defeats at the hands of the Japanese and the conceit made possible by final victory evidently concentrated minds on what China signified. Yet, the simple fact that, relative to Chosŏn and Japan, a much smaller pro­ portion of the population took part, and that the war in Chosŏn was but one of several conflicts taking place at that time, necessarily decreased its relative impact in China. Gellner explicitly rejected the importance of traditions in political thought (in his desire to portray nationalism as entirely novel) and placed the greatest emphasis on changing socio-historic context, which he viewed as determining the inevitable rise of nationalist thinking. Looking from the perspective of East Asian history, however, the

182

63

64

65

66

67 68 69

70 71

72

The war of 1592–1598 and national identity

ideas of political participation now considered to be inextricably bound up with the nation were the product of particular European traditions and in a European context. Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, e.g. 55–56. The term ‘proto-national’, used by Hobsbawm and others, is highly problematic because it implies a teleology, a linear path of development from something less developed to a fully-fledged national identity. Even when ‘proto-national’ is not the term used, emphasizing a modernist clean-break with the past (usually envisaged to have taken place in the nineteenth century in East Asia) risks an implied diminution of earlier ideas as less than national. Haboush made this dilemma explicit and ultimately took the position that, despite the problems of adopting a term rooted in Western historical experience, the benefits of expanding the term ‘nation’ to incorporate new meaning outweigh the risk of isolating discussion of East Asia by resorting to new or localized terminology. Haboush, The Great East Asian War, 5–14; Berry, Japan in Print, 211. Nicolas Tackett, for example, has made the case for national consciousness in the Song dynasty, arguing that we should re-conceive the Western European nation-states as but one iteration in a longer series of similar modes of thinking. He seeks to do this in part by using a less historically specific definition of the nation and nationalism. It is a con­ structive proposition, but by appropriating the word ‘nationalism’, he has predictably drawn the criticism that his examples do not fulfil all the criteria for that term (as defined by the modernist scholars based on Western European examples). While there is still constructive debate on the substance of his findings and methodology, the core point of contention remains the appropriateness or otherwise of redefining the terms of debate. See for example, the debate between Tackett and De Weerdt in Hilde De Weerdt, Review of Tackett, Nicolas, The Origins of the Chinese Nation: Song China and the Forging of an East Asian World Order (H-Nationalism, H-Net Reviews, August 2018). The most-cited theorists of nationalism, such as Gellner, Anderson, and Smith, all made explicit that they situated the birthplace of nations and nationalism in Western Europe, and their understanding of that region’s historical experience can be seen to form the core of their theses, even while they discussed wider examples (most non-European con­ sideration is given to post-colonial cases). Smith, The Ethnic Origins of Nations, e.g. 144; Anderson, Imagined Communities; Gellner, Nations and Nationalism. Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism since 1780, 66. These are the terms that Gellner, perhaps the most determined of all the major theo­ rists to deny any history to national thinking and nationalism, applied to narratives of the nation. Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, 56. We think not only of the war studied here but of the many other such moments: the effect of the invasions of the Song dynasty by the Khitan, Jurchen, and then Mongols; of Koryŏ’s invasion by the Mongols and Chosŏn’s invasion by the Jurchen in 1636; and of the formative moment that the Mongol invasions evidently held in Japanese memory. On the contrary, the open letters by literati described the crisis facing the country entirely in terms of classical example and established Neo-Confucian values, particu­ larly loyalty. As discussed, Song dynasty martyrs also provided precedent. In her study of the British context, Linda Colley artfully demonstrated how identities exist in multiple layers and depend on context. She explored how prima facia con­ flicting Irish, Scottish, Welsh, and English identities co-existed with a common British identity, which arose in the face of a common Other. Linda Colley, ‘British­ ness and Otherness: An Argument’, Journal of British Studies 31, no. 4 (1992): 309–329. For example, when the Song state (960–1279) was confronted to their north with credible rivals to the mantle of Chinese empire, contemporary writing evidences a marked shift towards a hardened ethnic sense of identity. Again, following the Manchu conquest and the establishment in Beijing of the Qing dynasty (1644–1911), there would be a resurgence in interpreting what it meant to be ‘Chinese’ in ethnic

The war of 1592–1598 and national identity 183 terms, in reaction to conquest by an ethnic ‘other’. This is exemplified in the vitriolic anti-Manchu diatribes of Wang Fuzhi 王夫之 (1612–1692), who called for the Chinese to defend their kind just as ants defend an ant-hill. Leo Shin’s study of Ming policy towards ‘non-Chinese’, cited above, demonstrates that a more ethnic way of thinking was prevalent in certain contexts in the sixteenth century. Regarding Song ethnic identity see Trauzettel, ‘Sung patriotism as a first step toward Chinese national­ ism’ and Mark Strange, ‘An Eleventh-Century View of Chinese Ethnic Policy: Sima Guang on the Fall of Western Jin’, Journal of Historical Sociology 20, no. 3 (2007 г.): 235–258; Wang Fuzhi’s rhetoric is cited in Jacques Gernet, Joseph Reginald Foster, and Charles Hartman, A History of Chinese Civilization (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 502; regarding Ming ethnic policy, see Shin, The Making of the Chinese State, esp. 1–5, 149–171.

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von Herder, Johann Gottfried. Reflections on the Philosophy of the History of Mankind. Translated by Frank Edward Manuel. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 1968. Hobsbawm, E.J. (Eric J.). Nations and Nationalism since 1780: Programme, Myth, Reality. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 1992. Hou Jigao 侯繼高. ‘Quan Zhe bing zhi kao’ 全浙兵制考 (Military System of the Entire Zhe Region), n.d. 史198–214. National Archives of Japan. www.digital.archives.go.jp. Kelley, Liam C. Beyond the Bronze Pillars : Envoy Poetry and the Sino-Vietnamese Relationship. Honolulu, T.H.: University of Hawai’i Press. 2005. Kim Yŏngmin 김영민. ‘Chosŏn chunghwajuŭi-ŭi chaegŏmt’o: ironjŏk chŏpkŭn’ 조선 중 화주의의 재검토: 이론적 접근 (Reconsidering Sinocentrism In Late Choson Korea). Han’guksa hakhoe 韓國史硏究, no. 162 (2013):211–252. Ooms, Herman. Tokugawa Ideology: Early Constructs, 1570–1680. Princeton: Princeton University Press. 1985. Reynolds, Susan. Kingdoms and Communities in Western Europe, 900–1300. Oxford: Clarendon Press ; New York. 1984. Rogers, Michael C. ‘National Consciousness in Medieval Korea: The Impact of Liao and Chin on Koryŏ’. In China among Equals, edited by Morris Rossabi, 151–172. Berke­ ley, CA: University of California Press. 1983. Satō Hirō 佐藤弘夫. Kami · butsu · ōken no chūsei 神 · 仏 · 王権の中世 (The Middle Period: Spirits, Buddha, and Monarchy). Kyoto: Hōzōkan 法藏館. 1998. Shin, Leo Kwok-yueh. The Making of the Chinese State: Ethnicity and Expansion on the Ming Borderlands. Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press. Shukuro Toshitake 宿蘆俊岳. ‘Shukuro kō’ 宿蘆稿 (Shukuro Manuscript). In Zoku Gunsho ruijū 續群書類從, by Hanawa Hokiichi et al. 塙保己一, Vol. 415. 史216–1. Kokuritsu kōbun shokan naikaku bunko 国立公文書館内閣文庫 (National Archives of Japan). http://www.digital.archives.go.jp. Smith, Anthony D. National Identity. London: Penguin Books. 1991. Smith, Anthony D. The Ethnic Origins of Nations. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. 1986. Strange, Mark. ‘An Eleventh-Century View of Chinese Ethnic Policy: Sima Guang on the Fall of Western Jin’. Journal of Historical Sociology 20, no. 3 (2007):235–258. Tackett, Nicolas. The Origins of the Chinese Nation. Song China and the Forging of an East Asian World Order. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 2017. Takeda Mariko 武田万里子. ‘Toyotomi Hideyoshi no Ajia chiri ninshiki’ 臣秀吉のアジ ア地理認識 (Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s Geographical Conception of Asia). Kaiji-shi kenkyū 海事史研究 67. 2010. Trauzettel, Rolf. ‘Sung patriotism as a first step toward Chinese nationalism’. In Crisis and prosperity in Sung China, edited by John Winthrop Haeger, 199–214. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. 1975. Wadden, Patrick. ‘Theories of National Identity in Early Medieval Ireland’. DPhil, University of Oxford. 2011. De Weerdt, Hilde. Review of Tackett, Nicolas, The Origins of the Chinese Nation: Song China and the Forging of an East Asian World Order. H-Nationalism, H-Net Reviews. August 2018. www.h-net.org/reviews/showrev.php?id=52962. Yang, Shao-yun. The Way of the Barbarians: Redrawing Ethnic Boundaries in Tang and Song China. Seattle: University of Washington Press. 2019. Zhao, Shizhen 趙士禎. ‘Dong shi sheng yan’ 東事剩言 (Surplus Words on the Eastern Business). Seoul National University. 5414. Kyujanggak. Seoul National University.

Index

abduction 16n11, 23, 91–92, 124n40 agriculture see farming arquebus see gunpowder weapons barbarian: vs. civility 138–139; customs 71–72, 74, 78n58; lands 87, 99n22, 116, 120; language 92; and Neo-Confucian thought 95; non-Chinese as 34, 67, 77n34, 153; perfidy 151, 155, 159n12; and Song-dynasty thought 79n72, 103n65; see also civility; hua-yi; yi brigands 67–69, 73, 143n28, 154 Buddhism 94, 105–106; propagation of 111, 116; influence on worldviews 45–46, 48, 112, 116, 168; and suffering 112–113 Calls to Arms 65, 74, 95, 139, 141, 157, 171–172 cannon see gunpowder weapons capital, as symbolic centre 115–116, 120 Celestial Awe see tian wei Chaoxian ji 朝鮮記 137–139, 168 Chinese World Order 10–13, 17n21, 18n24, 31, 153, 156 Chinju 晉州 68, 141, 173 chŏk 賊 see brigands Chŏnju 全州 70, 130 Chōsen hinikki 朝鮮日々記: as historical source 105; as literature 107; manuscripts 107, 122n19; purpose of writing 106–107; reception 105, 107, 149 Chōsen ki 朝鮮記 106–107 Chosŏn: court 71, 134; Japan relations 82–83, 89, 147; Ming relations see Ming chunghwa 中華 see Zhonghua chwa’im 左衽 see zuoren civility 168–169, 171–172, 175; manifest 168, 177n24; see also barbarian

class 70, 131–133, 140–141; discontent 77n22; see also mass participation; slaves cold 52, 133

communication 75, 130–131, 134,

139–140 conscripted labour see corvée correspondence see communication corvée: in Chosŏn 12, 64, 70, 94; in Japan 94, 113–115 cuisine 94, 132 demons see hell desertion 77n22; see also corvée Ding Yingtai 丁應泰 39n143 disease 3, 26, 52, 66, 70 divine aid 119, 134, 153; see also kamikaze Dong zheng ji 東征記 151–154 earthquake 88, 100n30 ebisu 116; see also barbarian embassy see peace negotiations emperor 10–12, 32–33, 37n46, 153; of China see Wanli; of Japan 11, 19n34; see also Chinese World Order epidemic see disease equal citizenship 167, 180n42 ethno-nationalism 169, 178n28; see also national; identity Europeans 31 famine 52, 70, 73, 129, 133–134 farming 30, 52, 70, 94 food: culture see cuisine; famine frontier 33–34, 149, 152–157 Fujian 福建 26, 30 Guan Yu 關羽 136–137, 153

186

Index

guerrillas see volunteer armies gunki 軍記 see sōgunki gunpowder weapons 18n27, 31, 97n2 Haengju 幸州 19n32

Hansan 閑山 130

Hansŏng 漢城 44, 50, 135–136

Heaven see divine aid

hell 49, 112–114

hendo (shōkoku) ishiki 辺土(小国)意識 46

Hideyoshi see Toyotomi Hideyoshi

Honganji 本願寺 106, 116

hua-yi 華夷 (K. hwa-yi) 74, 77n34, 79n72,

151, 171; see also barbarian

identity: with country 32, 138; cultural

167–169 ; ethnic 167, 171, 179n37,

179n40, 182n72; in the Song period

180n49; see also language; national

identity formation 5; and story-telling

163n49, 163n50

Ilbon wanghwan ilgi 日本往還日記:

authorship and manuscripts 83;

descriptions of Japan 93–95; and Hideyoshi’s investiture 88–91; and Koreans in Japan 91–93; portrayal of Hwang Shin 83–88

Ijūin Tadamune 伊集院忠棟 25–26

Ikinoshima 壹岐島 42, 87

Imch’ŏn 林川 64, 70, 130

imprisonment 70

Japan: conscription see corvée; resentment see revenge; Korea relations see Chosŏn; Koreans in see abductions Jiangxi 23, 25–26 Jin Xue 金學 26

Jingū, Empress 神功皇后 1, 47, 53, 156

Jōdo Shinshū 浄土真宗 105, 111, 115–116

Jurchen 152–153, 161n34, 171, 175,

182n69 Kŏje 巨濟 26

kamikaze 神風 1

Kara 唐 see Tang

Katō Kiyomasa 加藤清正 14, 71, 101n38

King Sŏnjo 宣祖 92, 95, 148

Konishi Yukinaga 小西行長 13–14, 44,

68, 82, 88–91

Konjaku monogatari shū 今昔物語集 46

Kōrai nikki 高麗日記 53

kyŏngmun 檄文 see Calls to Arms

Land of the Gods 47, 53–54, 118–119

language 92, 96–97, 169, 177n23; see also barbarian

Li Rusong 李如松 12, 66, 69, 133

Liang chao ping rang lu 兩朝平攘錄151,

155–156

Liaodong 遼東 51, 129

literacy 93, 130–131, 148

Liu Ting 劉綎 68, 70–71, 129

logistics see supply lines

looting see plunder

Luís Fróis 101n44

Ma Gui 麻貴 129, 133

maps 30–31, 45

marriage 73, 95

mass participation 167, 171–173, 180n41

memory 141–142, 149

merchants see trade

Ming: abuses in Chosŏn 69, 129,

134–135, 147; burden on Chosŏn 73,

129, 133–134; Chosŏn relations 67–68,

129, 139, 143n39, 147; popular anger at

66–70, 73, 135

miyako see capital

monuments 3, 136–137, 173

morality 94–95

Namwŏn 南原 108–110, 130, 132, 145n82

national: community 167, 173–174;

consciousness 173; cultural exclusivity

168–169, 177n20; definition of 167,

174–175; European roots of 174,

182n66; novelty of 166–167, 174–175,

179n36, 181n55; proto- 174, 177n13

Neo-Confucianism 95, 97, 169, 180n49

networks see communication

Nihon shoki 日本書紀 47

nobi 奴婢 see slaves

Non’gae 論介 141–142, 145n83, 181n60

Oh Hŭich’ŏl 吳希哲 64

Oh Yun’gyŏm 吳允謙 62, 74, 128, 147

Orangkae 51; see also barbarian

Ōta Kazuyoshi 太田一吉 105–106, 108,

117

Pak Hongjang 朴弘長 81, 83, 85–86

P’yŏkch’egwan 碧蹄館 66

P’yŏnggang 平康 127, 132

peace negotiations 13–14, 66–68, 73–74,

81–83, 89–90; 96

pillage see plunder

pirates see waegu

plunder: by Chosŏn civilians 11; by

Index Japanese 14, 112–113, 151; by Ming soldiers 69

prison see imprisonment

protectorate 12, 17n21, 18n30, 30–31, 136

punishment, military action as 13–14,

15n6, 67, 162n42; see also revenge

Pure Land School see Jōdo Shinshū Pyongyang 43–44, 52, 66

Qing 清 see Jurchen raiders see waegu

rape 72

rebellion 37n41, 67, 70, 89, 143n28,

162n42 remembrance see memory revenge: against Chosŏn 1; against Japan 66–68, 100n30, 141

royal tombs, desecration of 67, 98n9

Ryūkyū 琉球 22, 28–30, 45, 66

Sam Han 三韓 47, 66, 162n47

samurai, criticism of 114–115, 121

San Kan see Sam Han

Sanbō e 三寶繪 46

Satsuma 32; Lord of see Shimazu

Yoshihisa

savagery see barbarian

Sei Kan i ryaku 征韓偉略 156

Seoul see Hansŏng sexual violence see rape

Shen Weijing 沈惟敬 13, 44, 68, 82–83,

88–91, 134, 155

Shi Xing 石星 13, 15n5, 81–82, 162n39

Shimazu Yoshihiro 島津義弘 25, 162n47

Shimazu Yoshihisa 島津義久 23–25

shinkoku 神國 see Land of the Gods

shintō 神道 45, 47, 178n26

slaves 23, 62, 70, 75n10, 135, 172; see

also abduction; class

sōgunki 從軍記 53, 57n48

Son of Heaven see emperor

Song Yingchang 宋應昌 66–67, 69, 83

Song-dynasty patriotism 180n49

sovereignty: administrative 129; territorial

143n39; popular 167, 180n42

stained teeth 95

supply lines 15n5, 52, 64, 97n1, 110

surrendered Japanese 72 suzerain see Chinese World Order; protectorate; vassalage Swaemi rok 瑣尾錄: author’s purpose

62–63; circulation 63–64, 149–150; as

historical source 61, 64

187

Tangjin 唐津 130

Tang 唐 (as a word for China/Chinese) 32,

50–51, 69, 129, 133–135

Tennō 天皇 see emperor Three Kingdoms (historical Chinese period) 136; see also Guan Yu Three Lands (Buddhist worldview) 45–47,

112

tian wei 天威 66–68, 153

Tokugawa Ieyasu 徳川家康 25, 147

Tong sa rok 東槎錄: authorship and

manuscript 85–86, 99n18; descriptions

of Japan 88, 94–95; and Ilbon

wanghwan ilgi 87–88; and Koreans in

Japan 92 Toyotomi Hideyoshi 豐臣秀吉 1, 34, 66,

88-90, 178; admiration for 114–116;

aims and motivations of 9–10, 31, 82,

96, 101n37; and 1596 embassy 88–91;

foreign policy of 31, 40–41

trade 124n40, 136, 145n77 tribute system see Chinese World Order; vassalage Tsushima 對馬 85, 89–90 uibyŏng 義兵 see volunteer armies Ulsan 蔚山, siege of 110, 118–119, 133–134 vassalage 10, 12–13, 31, 89, 156, 162n42;

see also Chinese World Order

vengeance see revenge volunteer armies 65–66, 113, 141

Wae 倭 (C. Wo, ethnonym for Japanese)

73, 91, 93, 150, 168,171; -no 倭奴

36n29, 159n13

waegu 倭寇 (C. wokou) 9, 10–11, 23–24,

32, 73, 150

Wan Shide 萬世德 139, 152

Wanli 10, 51–52, 66, 136; perceptions of

115, 139

Wo 倭 see Wae wokou 倭寇 see waegu women 72, 130–131, 134

Wŏn Kyun 元均 11, 130

Wonu 倭奴 36n29, 67, 159n13 Xu Fuyuan 許孚遠 26

Yanagawa Shigenobu 柳川調信 89–90, 93

Yang Hao 楊鎬 19n38, 130, 133–134, 143n39 yangban 兩班 see class

188

Index

Yi Bin 李贇 64 Yi Sunshin 李舜臣 2, 11, 110, 130, 134 yi 夷 77n34, 150, 171; see also hua-yi Yoshino nikki 吉野日記: as historical source 40–41, 53; versions and circulation 41–42, 149 Yujŏng 惟政 71

Yukinaga see Konishi Yukinaga zei 賊 see brigands Zhonghua 中華144n67, 177n20 Zhu Junwang 朱均旺 25–27 Zu Chengxun 祖承訓 44, 51 zuoren 左衽 79n72, 138–139