The Grand Canal, c. 1800
A pretty convenient way to transport people through China (in addition to the many natural waterways)
The Ming garrisons in Liaodong have been at a state of high readiness ever since the territories were reconquered from the Later Jin. While the Jurchen civil war raged on, Beijing’s loyal armies kept careful watch from their fortresses, waiting for an opportune moment to intervene -- and staying alert for any more incursions from the north.
In the spring of 1633, scouts reported a massive Jurchen army descending on Liaodong. This was it, local commanders figured, and the Ming forces in the region quickly mustered to face this new threat. And then a pause. Something wasn’t quite right.
An emissary emerged from the Jurchen forces, asking for a meeting. The emissary identified himself as a representative of Daišan, eldest surviving son of the late Nurhaci.
“Flying from the north, a wounded eagle,” wrote the poet Wang Wei, although it is fairly certain that she was working from secondhand information in describing the events that followed. Nicolas Trigault, though likely also not an eyewitness, preserves one of the more complete descriptions that later chronicles used for a source.
Daišan, according to Trigault, looked older than his years, and when the slightly baffled Ming officials arrived and were ushered into his presence they were struck by the intense weariness that seemed to surround the man. The foreign prince explained what had been happening in the north. Hooge was dead; Daišan had championed Hong Taiji’s eldest son in the Jurchen civil war, but the lad had suddenly taken ill and was dead a few days later. Maybe subterfuge, maybe natural causes. But then Yebušu, Hong Taiji’s other son (still a child) had also turned up dead. The massive blunt force trauma to his head and chest was definitely not natural causes.[1]
Nurhaci had many sons, and fiercest among them all had been Ajige. He had inherited every bit of his father’s decisiveness and aggression, but while Hong Taiji had scruples, Ajige had none. Half a dozen princes now lay dead, likely at his hands, as he strove for power. And yet rather than consolidating leadership beneath his fist, every killing that he ordered set off another rebellion. Ajige, it seemed, was too clumsy and brutal to really gather support like his father had done. He had enough power, though, to keep anyone else from doing the same.
The dream of the “Later Jin” had more or less shattered. It was believed that Jirgalang was now the primary anti-Ajige figurehead, but that was just counting from among the Aisin Gioro. Old rivals, subjugated allies, formerly loyal generals, and opportunists of all kinds were rising up as well, joining the internecine bloodletting.
For Daišan, it’s all more than a little bit heartbreaking. He remembers his father, how the old man had gallantly led the Jurchens against the arbitrary and irresponsible rule of the Ming, how he’d forged the Jurchens into something greater. All that is gone now. At this point, he’d just like to survive. Preserve a little bit of his father’s legacy instead of staying and watching it all burn.
You have two choices, he bluntly tells the Ming officials. Fight us, and let more blood be spilled on this ground. Or take us into your service and find us a suitable place. For Daišan has not come alone: he has brought his family, his surviving supporters, and the entire Plain Red Banner.[2]
Once the Ming officials have stopped panicking and gotten a good idea of the situation, and once word is sent back to Beijing, there is a little bit of a discussion. A certain number of hardliners are willing to fight it out, to destroy Daišan’s army and drive the survivors back north, regardless of the cost. Yuan Chonghuan is tentatively in favor of this option. Another faction at court suggests lending Daišan logistical and possibly military support to return home, slay Ajige, and rule as a Ming tributary. Qian Qianyi suggests this relatively straightforward option. But it’s debated whether this is practical, or even possible. The Ming army would have to significantly commit itself to the operation and if anything else came up, the response would be badly hamstrung.
(Nobody suggests simply leaving Daišan and the Plain Red Banner sitting there at the gates, because that would be dumb.)
Eventually, someone suggests a third option. One of Hong Chengchou’s more frantic messages had just arrived in Beijing. If we don’t trust Daišan to go north, why not send him elsewhere? Somewhere that he and his retainers can go, far from Beijing where they could cause trouble. That is to say, send him and the Plain Red Banner off to Shaanxi, or Sichuan, or wherever the hell the Yellow Tiger was at this point. Let them fight and prove themselves. Practically a win-win.
It was risky. Moving an army across the interior of China...of course, a lot of it would be riverine transport, probably along the Grand Canal, so long as there wasn’t some foul-up in the system. But even then, commandeering a lot of boats would be cheaper than marching overland. Given enough planning -- and the administrative state was still capable of some things, even while peasants died. (Peasants died of many things. Some starved, although in times of famine the higher death rates generally spoke to a spike in infant and elder mortality. Some were slain by bandits or by Ming soldiers. And some died of sickness; the plague was starting up again, so they said.[3])
The fact that a lot of peasants had died would make provisioning such a maneuver a little difficult, but not inordinately so. Indeed, there was some optimism that the Plain Red Banner would help to make up for the depopulation of certain regions -- dead peasants can’t pay taxes, after all. Also, it wasn’t long before Hong Chengchou had caught wind of their arrival, and soon his letters were all but demanding that the Jurchens be sent to him as reinforcements. Hong even wrote directly to Daišan himself, promising his assistance with getting everybody acclimated and settled down in Shaanxi.[4] This little bit of queue-jumping has attracted criticism over the years, and his contemporaries regarded it as insubordinate and a little gauche -- but, in the end, “just send them to Shaanxi and let someone else deal with it” won out in Beijing.
While this was going on, Zheng Zhilong was returning triumphantly from his new conquest. He was enthusiastic in greeting his wife, whom he had not seen for some time -- he was also happy to see his little son -- but, of course, his primary duty was to report to the emperor.
To some extent, the meeting had already been carefully choreographed beforehand via messages exchanged back and forth. To make a long story short, Zheng Zhilong is granted the title “Admiral of the Coastal Seas,” conferring some prestige while being just vague enough to apply generally to the situation.[5] Essentially, Zheng is being made a sort of viceroy for the new territory.
As previously mentioned, the name
Taiwan had gotten some currency, a local name referring to one of the more habitable coastal areas that has sometimes been applied more broadly.[6] The Portuguese, of course, called it
Ilha Formosa, “Beautiful Isle,” another name which had become popular (in mostly European circles). Now it would be getting another name. By suggestion, reportedly, of the Tianqi Emperor himself, the Ming empire’s newest territory would henceforth be called
Dongshan (東山, literally “East Mountain”), after the emperor heard Admiral Zheng’s fabulous descriptions of the island’s rugged and mountainous interior.[7]
The name was one sure to inspire speculation. After all, it implied that the Ming court was interested not only in the coastal regions, but also in...well, the mountains and jungles and everything in the middle bits, too.[8] A long-term project, to be sure. Well, as long as there's profit involved. Zheng’s sure he’ll figure out something. He always does.
When Zheng leaves to return to his new domain, he receives permission to take his wife and son with him. Some in the imperial court are suspicious enough to request the emperor keep them as hostages. Qian Qianyi, Minister of Rites, speaks up on Zheng’s behalf, and according to legend offers his own head as a guarantee. Regardless, it is made very clear that Zheng’s rule as a sort of viceroy is temporary, and that eventually a regular government will be set up on the island with bureaucrats sent from Beijing. I mean, someone’s gotta be the one to collect taxes.
So Zheng Zhilong and his little family head back to what will soon become his own miniature court -- located, for convenience, near-ish to the coastal settlement originally called
Taiwan but which some of his Fujianese compatriots have started calling Luoyang, after a bridge back in Quanzhou.[9] The city of Luoyang will eventually grow to be a decently cosmopolitan port, where merchants from all over stop over for provisions and trade.
But that’s later. It’ll take a lot of hard work, and time...
Footnotes
[1] It’s already been noted, but IOTL Hooge took himself out of contention and Hong Taiji’s son Fulin was elevated to become the Shunzhi Emperor. ITTL Fulin does not exist and Yebušu was Hong Taiji’s only other surviving son -- we can assume that Šose does not exist either -- most of Hong Taiji’s sons IOTL were born in the 1630s and 1640s, which means he has relatively few male offspring ITTL. And now they’re dead.
[2] As you may be aware, Nurhaci organized his nation into the Eight Banners, named after the designs of their flags, and IOTL Daišan was affiliated with the Plain Red Banner. Right now, he may have between ten and twenty thousand men under his command, although probably closer to the low end of that range due to recent losses. You can also assume that he is accompanied by the families, dependents, etc. of his men, who are all noncombatants.
[3] Just as IOTL, 1633 marks the first stirrings of a major plague epidemic that’s about to devastate the region.
[4] IOTL after his capture by the Qing in 1642, Hong Chengchou threw his lot in with the new regime and applied his talents to encouraging their gradual Sinicization. For that matter, Daišan seems to have spent his time working behind the scenes to preserve the Aisin Gioro, an effort that was mostly overlooked during his lifetime. So honestly, if you could pick two people to lead the respective sides in a situation like this, you could do far worse!
[5] He got this title IOTL as well -- in fact, he was given the title around this time IOTL for...defeating the Dutch in battle.
[6] This is OTL. In fact, English emissaries addressed Koxinga as “King of Tywan.”
[7] There is at least one locality in modern Taiwan with this name -- and several places outside of Taiwan with the name, too. IOTL when Koxinga and his forces took the place, they renamed it Tungning (東寧), a name which was transliterated into English before consistent methods of transliterating Chinese phrases was developed but which in pinyin would be rendered Dōngníng, and which means something like “Eastern Pacification.”
[8] This is an interesting development because IOTL, Tungning never really expanded into the mountains -- the interior of the island was always under very tenuous control, if that, until the Qing started colonizing the place in earnest.
[9] IOTL the settlement originally called Taiwan (or Tayouan, or Tywan, or a host of other spellings) which the Dutch called Zeelandia was renamed by Koxinga’s men to Anping, named after...a bridge in Quanzhou. They’re both very nice bridges.