Grand Strategy: The Kangxi Emperor

The odds were slim that the Kangxi Emperor’s dynasty would survive long in 1667. But the odds of surviving smallpox had not been so great, after all, and the boy who would become emperor had lived through that[i].

When Kangxi assumed the throne at the age of 14, however, the Qing dynasty faced not one threat, but threats from nearly every direction. To the west, barbarian tribes warred with each other in the mountains and grasslands and threatened to again disrupt the empire’s heartlands[ii]. To the north, traders and hunters from another vast agrarian empire probed at China’s frontiers[iii]. To the southeast, a pirate kingdom that had long defied imperial control roved the waters off their base in Taiwan, along with a new kind of seafaring barbarian, this one from the faraway European continent[iv]. And in the south and southwest, traitors-turned-lords who had once joined the Qing to topple the Ming bridled at attempts to constrain their autonomy and threatened revolt[v].

Taken alone, each of these weakened the Qing body. Taken together, such a disease-ridden body likely did not have long to live. So when the Kangxi Emperor took power at 14, he set out to cure his empire of its illnesses and strengthen its immunity, to annihilate those who would threaten it and harden it against future threats. The Kangxi Emperor’s grand strategy—want he wanted for his empire and how he would try to get it—used diplomacy where expedient and military strength where possible to unify a fragmented land, to consolidate Manchurian minority rule over the majority Han Chinese population, and to expand the empire’s borders to reinforce its security.

It was a strategy that required a combination of strategic triage, calculated patience, and decisive action. And when the Kangxi Emperor was finished, the empire would not only be whole and hale, it would be larger and stronger than it had been in centuries—even if a personal vendetta and rapid expansion would also leave the empire vulnerable in future generations.

Critical to the implementation of Kangxi’s grand strategy was his ability decide where to act and when, and then to act decisively. This was true even in the earliest years of his reign. Although the empire faced numerous external threats in the 1660s, it also strained under ethnic tension between the minority Manchu conquerors and their majority Han subjects[vi]. That tension would be especially dangerous it ruptured in the face of revolt by the Han general Wu Sangui and his compatriots, Chinese generals who wished to hold on to the authority and autonomy they’d earned by helping the Manchu conquer the Ming China decades before.

The initial steps, then, in Kangxi’s grand strategy were these: First, eliminate the internal threat posed by his harsh and nativist Manchurian regents, who had inflamed those ethnic tensions with their policies enforcing Manchurian racial superiority[vii]. And second, eliminate the threat posed by the Chinese generals who’d been granted feudatories in the south and southwest and who might ride racial tensions and their already sizable armies to an insurgency against the Qing[viii].

For two years after assuming personal rule in 1667, Kangxi waited, ruling within the constraints of his regency and heeding his advisors. Then in 1669, he suddenly arrested his chief advisor on a detailed list of crimes and purged the upper ranks of his government. With his political power unchallenged, Kangxi could move more freely against Wu Sangui and the other feudatories in the south and southwest. To test the new emperor’s will, Wu Sangui had in 1667 offered his resignation from service. Kangxi had then declined and delayed. In 1673, another general, Shang Kexi, offered his resignation. This time, Kangxi, his authority cemented, ignored his advisors and accepted. The generals revolted, and the Three Feudatories Rebellion ignited[ix].

Wu Sangui and his fellow rebels also found support among the pirates of Taiwan[x]. Previously under the leadership of Koxinga, the Zheng family’s “merchant” fleets had not only defied Qing attempts to bring them and their island under control, they had also defeated the Dutch and forced them from a colony at Taipei[xi]. But Koxinga was long dead, and leadership of the rebellion fell to Wu Sangui, who himself died in 1678[xii]. After Wu’s death, Kangxi’s forces crushed the devolving rebellion, bringing the southwest, south, and Taiwan back under firm imperial control and eliminating the major internal threats to Qing rule[xiii].

With the threat of major rebellion excised, Kangxi could turn his attention to the next greatest threat: Europeans. The European problem presented itself in two places, one by land in northern Manchuria and one by sea along China’s coast. Imperial China has frequently been accused of a continental bias. The accusation does not hold up[xiv]. Kangxi, specifically, worried about the Europeans on their boats and what their appearance might portend[xv]. But with Taiwan under Qing control and the pirates—who it would be noted had themselves beaten the Europeans—defeated, Kangxi decided to turn focus instead to his northern frontier, where Russian fur traders had been following the sable and other animals into China’s frontiers and where Russians had even won a first battle against Chinese forces in 1652[xvi].

In 1685, Kangxi ordered an attack on a wooden Russian garrison at Albazin on the Amur River but allowed the defeated defenders to flee back to Russia[xvii]. When the Russians returned as expected, Kangxi’s initial show of force had the desired effect. The Russians, more aware of Chinese military power, agreed to sit down with the Qing to demarcate borders and reach a deal on trade[xviii]. The resulting Treaty of Nerchinsk—the first of its kind between China Russia—gave everyone what they wanted[xix]. Both got a clear border demarcation at the Amur. The Russians got rights to trade[xx]. And the Qing got Russian neutrality in the war against Galdan[xxi].

It was another deft and crucial act of strategic triage. Even before Kangxi began dealing with the Russians, Mongolian tribes in China’s western hinterlands had again erupted in internecine violence[xxii]. Many tribes had united under the chieftain Galdan. His swelling Dzungar confederacy threatened to annihilate the Qing-aligned Khalkha, who had fled into Chinese lands[xxiii]. By 1688, this had become a serious problem, and Galdan also sought further support from the Russians[xxiv]. Kangxi feared an agreement would pull Russia into Central Asia and hinder his objectives there[xxv]. Russian neutrality was, therefore, worth territory and trade rights[xxvi]. So Kangxi expedited negotiations in Manchuria and secured the Nerchinsk agreement with Russia, blocking Galdan[xxvii]. Then, after years of failed diplomacy in Mongolia, Kangxi decided in 1690 to personally lead an expedition into the west to kill Galdan and bring the territory under Chinese control—to colonize Central Asia and finally end the Mongolian threat[xxviii].

It would take not one but three expensive and frustrating expeditions of stretched supply lines and stymied logistics to destroy the Dzungar power, each one of which hardened Kangxi’s hatred and determination to kill Galdan[xxix]. In 1697, an isolated Galdan at last died mysteriously on the steppe[xxx]. Kangxi never got the satisfaction of killing him.

With Galdan’s death, Kangxi’s grand strategy had largely been realized. He had brought the formerly Ming areas to heel and expanded his empire to include vast new tracts in the west. Using strategic triage, patience, and decisive action, Kangxi had crushed his enemies, unified and expanded his empire, and consolidated his authority. Through diplomacy and force, Kangxi had demonstrated that the Qing Dynasty did indeed deserve the Mandate of Heaven and had legitimized Manchurian rule. When Kangxi took the throne, Qing China was divided and sick. By the end of the 17th century, it was large, unified, and strong. Yes, Kangxi’s vendetta against Galdan had been wasteful and impractical—a departure from strategy—and the massive new territories gained by it would prove difficult to administer.

Those were failings of Kangxi’s grand strategy. But they were failings for future generations—generations that likely only had a chance to fail because the Kangxi Emperor’s grand strategy bestowed that chance upon them.


[i] Perdue, Peter C. China Marches West: The Qing Conquest of Central Eurasia (Cambridge, Massachusetts, London  England: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2010).
[ii] Ibid.
[iii] Westad, Odd Arne. Restless Empire: China and the World Since 1750 (New York, New York: Basic Books, 2012).
[iv] Khan, Sulmaan. “The Grand Strategy of Kangxi” (class lecture, The Foreign Relations of Modern China, The Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy, Medford, Massachusetts, September 12, 2018).
[v] Perdue. China Marches West.
[vi] Ibid.
[vii] Ibid.
[viii] Ibid.
[ix] Ibid.
[x] Khan. “The Grand Strategy of Kangxi”.
[xi] Khan, Sulmaan. “The Qing Conquest of China” (class lecture, The Foreign Relations of Modern China, The Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy, Medford, Massachusetts, September 2018)
[xii] Perdue. China Marches West.
[xiii] Ibid.
[xiv] Khan. “The Grand Strategy of Kangxi”.
[xv] Ibid.
[xvi] Ibid.
[xvii] Ibid.
[xviii] Ibid.
[xix] Westad. Restless Empire.
[xx] Ibid.
[xxi] Ibid.
[xxii]Khan. “The Grand Strategy of Kangxi”.
[xxiii] Perdue. China Marches West.
[xxiv] Ibid.
[xxv] Westad. Restless Empire.
[xxvi] Ibid.
[xxvii] Khan. “The Grand Strategy of Kangxi”.
[xxviii] Perdue. China Marches West.
[xxix] Khan. “The Grand Strategy of Kangxi
[xxx] Perdue. China Marches West

Conquering the Koguryo

Ji’an, Jilin Province, China

I know what Murong Huang’s soldiers felt when they sacked the Wandu Mountain City in 342 A.D. I’ve felt the pain of the mountain roads and the savored the taste of victory. Or at least, I savored the taste of free entry.

Wandu: The once capital of the Korean Koguryo Kingdom. Born in 37 B.C., the Koguryo survived some seven centuries of war before an allied force of China’s Tang Dynasty and the rival Korean kingdom Silla destroyed it at Pyongyang in 667 C.E. The Koguryo capital Wandu was founded in 3 A.D. along the riverbanks and mountain slopes that surround the contemporary Chinese city of Ji’an on the North Korean border. By the fourth century, the Koguryo dominated much of the Korean peninsula and northeastern China and were well-known for their skills in both arts – gilded jewelry and sculptures, and especially its dancing culture – and warfare. But it was in that century that the Chinese commander Murong Huang attacked the fortress city through the mountains from both the north and the south, captured it, and burned it to the ground. The fleeing Koguryo left their ruined city to the wild.

When I set off from Ji’an – perhaps the most beautiful city in China with its streams, parks, clean streets, polite populace, and river views of North Korea – for the few-kilometers walk up to the Wandu site, I did not intend to follow in Murong Huang’s footsteps. The path I’d mapped took me out of the mountain-hemmed city, along the river, and through a picturesque village that gave way to an idyllic countryside of farmhouses and cornfields in which birds flitted and chirped and insects chittered in the thick vegetation.

The path soon turned up a small valley carved by a creek. The creek, home to countless frogs both dull and bright, gurgled over rocks as it slipped out of the near-vertical, tree shrouded mountains above. At first, the path cut clearly through the bushes, an easy hike up the gully. I giggled as I walked, glorying in the sunlight and the water and the trees. Soon, though, the going got steeper and the way got murkier. In the trees above the narrow valley, I heard the ominous clanging of bells.

My steps, and my breath, quickened. Cows. I hate cows. I fear cows.

I climbed over a ramshackle wooden fence just as the path disappeared. My giggling stopped and smile drooped. I began to worry that I’d gone the wrong way.  But the bells still followed.

And then, there ahead around a bend, four bovine monsters lay in the grass. Beyond them, too, stood a bull, his nose ring tied to a horn by a series of menacing. makeshift rusty metal links. He eyed me and stomped the ground. But the bells behind me still hadn’t stopped. As I stood, petrified, the clanking grew closer, and at last, another handful of cows trundled out of the trees and blocked my escape.

There was but one possible path forward. Walking in the middle of the stream, I could wind past the cows, keeping a few spans between us. I started forward speaking softly and slowly waving my hands. The laying cows watched me and chewed the grass, swatting at swarms of midges and mosquitoes with their ears  and tossing their heads. I should’ve paid more attention to the swarms – a prophecy of things to come – but I had eyes for only the bull. He’d lowered his head and turned to follow me as I edged around. He snorted and stomped. When I pulled parallel with him, he came for me.

I took off up the creek, stumbling over rocks, not daring to look back. I tripped, picked myself up, and kept running. Locusts and frogs bounded out of my path, plunking off of my bare legs and hips. Suddenly something squirmed under my foot. I glanced down to see a snake writhing half under my shoe and half under the rocks, seemingly stuck between trying to flee and trying to lash out at its tormentor. I skipped to the side, kept running up the ever-steepening hill and reminded myself to pay more attention to the path under my feet; I had no idea what kinds of animals lived in this forest.

Soon, I could only hear the blood pounding in my ears and my ragged breath. I’d left the bull, and those horrible bells, behind. The bull and the bells, but not the bugs. I staggered to a halt to catch my breath, and as my bodily sounds faded, the buzzing closed in. Hundreds of insects swarmed my head and naked shoulders.  No time to breathe, I started running again. The swarm pursued.

Before long, the valley came to an end. The only choice was up — on all fours. I slipped and slid on broken rocks covered by a skin of dead leaves. Whenever I tried to tack horizontal, I found myself trapped by thorned and stinging plants which shredded my calves and forearms. When the Koguryo climbed these hills, they’d used spiked boots to keep their balance. I did not have those. For every meter I crawled up the slope, grabbing rotten tree limbs for balance, I slid half as far back down. Bulbous gray spiders skittered in every direction and bouncing grasshoppers crackled in rage and terror. The swarm did not relent.

A lovely walk in the woods had turned into my personal Apocalypse Now.

Finally, a rocky outcropping rose out of the mountain top in front of me. Like some kind of harried, gasping seal, I dragged my slippery body over the top and lay heaving for a moment on the stone path on the top. Then the swarm found me, again, and I took off along the path, skating on the phlemy, mossy stones and galloping up and down stairs. Through gaps in the trees I could see Ji’an down the valley, and there, up the river, the sand-colored burial mounds I’d been trying to reach.

I slipped, scampered, and stumbled, all while swatting at my head, just trying to outrun the bugs for another half hour or so – up and down and up and down and then down, down, down, until suddenly the trees opened up, and there I was, surrounded by crumbled city gates in an open field. A pink-shirted tour group turned away from an ancient watchtower to point at me and shout.

I walked among the Wandu Mountain City ruins for the next couple of hours, marveling at the engineering of the mountain fastness. As I looked at a map of the former Koguryo capital, it at last dawned on me: like Murong Huang more than a millennium before, I’d assaulted the ancient city walls from behind, then run along them and at last breached the city.

Murong Huang had sacked a city. I’d snuck into a UNESCO World Heritage Site without a ticket. Feats, one and both.

Later in Ji’an a grilled corn hawker would tell me I was the second white foreigner he’d seen in two years. The security guards at the Wandu ticket check gaped at me as I walked out the exit, covered in leaves, mud, and blood.

I like to think the Wandu guards 1600 years ago had similar looks on their faces.

Toward Heaven

Changbai Mountain, Jilin Province, China

I didn’t notice all the upturned heads until I settled into my seat. As the bus doors closed, I glanced up and saw the eyes of everyone around me flicking nervously toward Heaven. Like any good primate, mine did too.

Yellow jackets. Dozens of them smacked against the ceiling above. And the windows around. My eyes flicked back down to the faces of the people whose eyes were flicking. Their eyes flicked up and around and mine followed. No one said anything. My world quickly shrank to silent flicking eyes and the little electric pop of wings and carapaces bouncing against the walls. Everyone so often, someone would slap at their hair in a cautious panic.

At last, the engine fired to life, and I was glad I at least couldn’t hear the bugs anymore, even if I still see all the crawling, jerking eyes.

But the bus growled onto the road, and slowly the insects disappeared, maybe into the air conditioner. Nobody seemed to care at all where they had gone.

It takes two bus trips to get to the western slope of Changbai Mountain in China’s Jilin Province, the volcanic peak jutting up out of the dense forests that surround Songjianghe Village – or these days, Songjianghe construction site: “Where everything is half finished and the restaurants never open!” The first bus, the one with the wasps, chugs past the half built resorts of the future as it pulls out of a faux Alpish ski village that developers must hope will one day transform into a real one. It rolls past toll booths, peeling police stations, and dilapidated villages, as it follows the muddy Songjiang River, swollen with the summer rains and the last of the snow melt from Heaven Lake in the crater at the top of Changbai. The water feeds the lush grasses and fir trees that give way to painted meadows just after the transfer to the second bus. This second one is the more harrowing of the two, even without the bugs, as camel caravans of the green-sided beasts sprint their way above the trees and charge past each other on the curves of the twisted road that leads them to the top.

From there, its 1,400 steps dodging selfie takers and breathless Korean tour groups to get the rim of China’s largest, deepest, and highest crater lake – a multi-hued blue broth in a bowl of lichen and stone outcroppings at 2,744 meters in elevation. I ran those steps, and it was good that I did. I got about five minutes of mostly unobstructed view of the basin, half of which belongs to North Korea, before the wind smothered the view in clouds.

Heaven Lake

Heaven Lake

 

 

 

I’d be warned about the finicky nature of both the weather on Changbai, which means eternal white, as well Heaven Lake’s very own prehistoric lake monster.

I saw the weather but not the lake monster. I’ll blame the weather for that one.