Chapter Twenty-Three: Prelude to the Court Assembly

A strike could indeed paralyze the Ministry of Revenue, shake the entire court, and force the imperial government to act and resolve the crisis. But such a move also risked infuriating the court, which might respond with a sweeping purge of the ministry’s clerks. While men like Chen Gaowen and his entrenched colleagues seemed well-positioned to survive such a storm, a move so drastic would ultimately harm both sides—a path of mutual destruction.

At such a moment, the years spent cultivating Wang Zhengzhi by Fei Jizong, Chen Gaowen, and the rest finally showed their value.

If Wang Zhengzhi were to step forward at the last moment to deal with the crisis, it would all appear to remain under the imperial court’s control, causing little commotion. Meanwhile, the Ministry of Revenue’s clerks, by keeping the threat of a strike in reserve, would have a weapon sharp enough to deal with Fu Shuxun.

Now, the one who would take the stage against Fu Shuxun was Wang Zhengzhi.

Such was Wang Zhengzhi’s position in this unfolding plot.

“Half a million taels… what a grand gesture! To buy me as a pawn at the frontlines—should I do it, or not?”

Suddenly…

Wang Zhengzhi’s thoughts turned to a dignified minister of great reputation at court—none other than the current Grand Secretary, Zhou Yanru.

Wang Zhengzhi hailed from Jinghai, in Hejian Prefecture, Northern Zhili. Though he was a scholar of the highest distinction, a genuine graduate of the imperial examinations, he was not of the Donglin faction. Despite his high office, he had been pushed out of the inner circle of power. All this stemmed from the fact that those in power were Southerners and Donglin men.

Coming from the wrong background, Wang Zhengzhi found it near impossible to break into the Donglin clique.

Moreover, Zhou Yanru, as a Donglin leader, was surrounded by a host of useful retainers. Each time Wang Zhengzhi tried to ingratiate himself and seek acceptance, he was met with polite gratitude followed by rejection. The repeated snubs left Wang Zhengzhi simmering with resentment, gnashing his teeth in private.

Now, presented with such an opportunity, how could Wang Zhengzhi remain unmoved?

Because… should he succeed, what he would hold in his hands would be the whole Ministry of Revenue!

Today you treat me with indifference—tomorrow, I’ll make you regret it deeply!

“Hmph, without Zhou Yanru, is there no one left in the Cabinet who appreciates my worth?”

Fired by dreams of revenge and triumph, Wang Zhengzhi called out in a ringing voice, “Attend me! Prepare the ink!”

Then, abruptly, he changed his mind and barked, “Enough! I’ll go myself! Prepare my sedan!”

Outside the Wang residence, as Wang Zhengzhi’s sedan was hurriedly carried out through the side gate, Chen Gaowen allowed himself a quiet smile. “The real battle,” he murmured, “is just beginning.”

...

In the Palace of Heavenly Purity, the Chongzhen Emperor sat with furrowed brow, deep in thought, his mind revolving around the memorials recounting defeat in Liaodong. He picked up his brush, swept it across the blank page, and then—dissatisfied—scratched out the words.

The hall was wrapped in silence, broken only by the emperor’s writing.

When he wrote his replies, the brush’s strokes on paper were slow and soothing. But when displeased, he would score out the words with such force that the paper shrieked under the pen, a harsh sound that made Chen Xinjia’s heart leap in his chest, leaving him tense and anxious.

Thus, Chen Xinjia lowered his gaze and fell into deeper silence.

He knew all too well what troubled the emperor. The defeat in Liaodong had undone years of effort, and the greater worry was the internal unrest festering in the heartland. This weighed heavily on Chongzhen.

What troubled Chen Xinjia even more was the central government’s impotence. They could not even manage the most basic, piecemeal remedies.

In response to the disaster in Liaodong, the Ministry of War’s proposal was to rally the remnants, hold Shanhai Pass, reinforce the fortresses along the Yanshan border, scour the Capital Garrison for battle-worthy troops, and coax Zuo Liangyu’s forces northward, gradually redeploying General Qin Liangyu’s troops from the Shizhu Tusi in Sichuan, and the Wolf Troops from Guangxi.

In such dire straits, finding troops who could actually fight was paramount. The most reliable were Qin Liangyu’s men, next the Wolf Troops. But Sichuan lay a thousand miles away, and Guangxi even farther—at least three thousand miles, with no telling when they might arrive.

Zuo Liangyu’s troops were available, but everyone knew they were currently locked in combat with Zhang Xianzhong’s rebels.

Thus, of all the available forces, the Capital Garrison seemed the only real hope.

The commander of the Capital Garrison, Li Guozhen, was a hereditary noble, the son of Li Shouqi, who had held the post at the start of Chongzhen’s reign. The emperor trusted the Li family, investing more than 200,000 taels of silver each year, never stinting, a sign of his high expectations.

Yet, while outsiders might be ignorant, Chen Xinjia knew the true state of the Capital Garrison.

This was the empire’s central, elite force—Chongzhen had never let it out of his sight. To him, internal threats were even graver than those on the border. In the twelfth year of his reign, when Yang Sichang led the campaign at Xiangyang, the main force of the Capital Garrison, under General Sun Yingyuan, had already been dispatched to Jingmen in Hubei, now locked in fierce battle with the once-subdued, now-rebellious Zhang Xianzhong.

As for those troops left in the capital—never mind that the official muster of 200,000 had been gutted by eighty or ninety percent—the remaining officers and hereditary commanders: how many could still mount a horse or draw a bow?

To send such a force to aid Liaodong would be to ask men to march a hundred miles beyond the city, when they barely had the courage to leave its walls.

Thus, as far as the Liaodong campaign was concerned, Chen Xinjia had never counted the Capital Garrison as a real option. But such thoughts, of course, he would never utter aloud. On the contrary, he had to argue for more funds for the Garrison, to see if it might be reformed and made useful for the Liaodong front.

For Chen Xinjia, a chilling thought haunted his mind: With Liaodong in such ruin, if Shanhai Pass fell, would not the iron hooves of the Manchu invaders once again threaten the capital itself?

By then—any effort to reform the Capital Garrison would be far too late.

As for the White Lance Troops, Qin Liangyu was indeed loyal to the dynasty, but she was far away in Sichuan. Even if supplies along the way could be managed, Zhang Xianzhong’s rebellion in the southwest made it impossible for her to march north. The Wolf Troops were mentioned only to placate His Majesty.

Chen Xinjia saw the situation clearly, but such words could only circle in his mind; there was no way to ease the emperor’s anxiety.

Because…

The real difficulty was not lack of strategy.

It was that—even these meager plans could not be carried out.

The reason was simple: there was no silver!

Without silver, all else was vain.

At this, Chen Xinjia felt a wave of despondency. He even suspected that, after so many setbacks, the emperor was already leaning toward suing for peace.

What Chen Xinjia did not know was that, if not for Zhu Cilang’s words of encouragement and resolve, Chongzhen would already have tasked Chen Xinjia with arranging the peace negotiations.

Just then, footsteps rang crisply across the golden brick floor of the Palace of Heavenly Purity.

Chen Xinjia raised an eyebrow—he knew that Wei Zhaocheng was arriving with officials from the Ministry of Revenue.

Wei Zhaocheng was a member of the Grand Secretariat and a scholar of the Wenyan Pavilion. He had once served as Vice Minister of War, and after entering the Secretariat, had concurrently managed the Ministry of Revenue. But his lackluster abilities had seen him stripped of all but his post at the Wenyan Pavilion after repeated impeachments.

Though he hailed from a financial background, Wei Zhaocheng had fallen on hard times. Why, then, was he coming to court today?