The Imjin War (69 page)

The victory at Tosan had in fact been such a close thing for the Japanese that it came to be regarded by some as a miracle. In his account of the battle, Commander Okochi Hidemoto wrote that the ability of himself and his comrades to hold out against such appalling odds “certainly was not something achieved by mere humans.” Rather it was a “divine mystery” aided by “
Japan’s ninety-eight thousand gods of war,” and in turn a sign that what they were doing in Korea was part of a “sacred destiny” that Hideyoshi was leading them toward.
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But of course the survival of the garrison at Tosan was no divine mystery. It was an example of what desperate men could do when adequately armed and fighting for their lives. For the average foot soldier the engagement had been nothing more than a horrifying time in hell, a journey through what the priest Keinen described as a “Buddha-less world.”
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As they watched the besieging army retreat, then welcomed their own comrades into the fortress and accepted their offers of food, many of the defenders who were still ambulatory suddenly found themselves unable to stand. With the weeks of unre
mitting strain and privation finally at an end, the remaining wisps of strength holding them together gave way entirely and they collapsed to the ground. Many of these traumatized survivors would eventually be restored to health and return to Japan. The memory of Tosan, however, would remain with them always. For years afterward veterans of the siege would be plagued by nightmares of what they had endured, fighting for their lives again and again whenever they lay down to sleep.
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Supreme Ming commander Yang Hao was not unduly discouraged by the rout of his army at Tosan. Although he had failed to take the fortress, the Japanese inside had been made to suffer terribly, and by all accounts had lost a lot of men. The prospects for ultimate victory, moreover, seemed almost certain, for Yang’s own forces were steadily increasing while the strength of the Japanese was slowly being whittled away. Fresh Ming forces were at that very moment moving across China’s eastern frontier to the Yalu River, which marked the border between the Middle Kingdom and Korea. Among them was a contingent of Sichuan troops under “Big Sword” Liu Ting and reinforcements from China’s northeastern province of Liaodong under General Dong Yiyuan. Naval units under Admirals Chen Lin and Deng Zilong, mean-while, were making their way along the Chinese coast from the southern province of Guangdong and the eastern province Zhejiang. They would cross the Yellow Sea and reach Korea in early May.
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Yang Hao thus returned north to
Seoul in late February 1598 in an upbeat mood. The retreat from Tosan had been only a temporary setback. He had every intention, after resting his men and incorporating the newly arrived reinforcements into his command, of launching a second, more powerful offensive, probably sometime in June when the weather would be warmer and supplies easier to obtain. Yang’s civilian superior, Xing Jie, agreed with his assessment, and sent a report to Beijing highly supportive of Yang’s prosecution of the war. The Korean government also supported Yang. It had been thanks to his leadership, after all, that the second Japanese invasion had been blunted and the “bandits” confined to their forts in the south. Unlike his predecessor Li Rusong, moreover, Yang now seemed intent on finishing the job of driving Hideyoshi’s army entirely out of Korea. Despite their disappointment over the retreat from Tosan and the reservations they had over some of the decisions he had made, the Koreans therefore continued to think highly of Yang Hao and continued to regard him as the best man for the job. All that he needed was a little more time.

Unfortunately for Yang, Xing, and the Koreans, the setback at Tosan was not so quickly forgotten in
Beijing. Too many men had been killed to overlook. A relatively low-ranking official from the Board of War named Ding Yingtai was accordingly dispatched to Seoul to investigate the situation and draw up a report.

Yang Hao sensed danger. Ding was known to belong to the faction that opposed
China’s military involvement in Korea, and so it was certain that he would use his report to attack Yang and in turn those officials who were supportive of the war. To protect himself from this anticipated assault, Yang sent a letter of resignation to Beijing citing the usual excuse of poor health. Xing Jie came to his support, dispatching a second report to the emperor praising Yang for his hard work and courage. After reading Xing’s assessment of China’s supreme commander in Korea, the Wanli emperor reaffirmed his confidence in Yang and refused to accept his resignation.
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Ding Yingtai in the meantime had finished his investigation in
Seoul and was on his way home to Beijing. The report he carried with him would soon cause a storm.

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The Japanese in their chain of forts along the south coast of
Korea were not feeling overly confident in the wake of the siege of Tosan. While it was heartening that the fortress had held out and the massive Chinese and Korean army been driven back, the victory had been costly, and the entire engagement a very close thing that could easily have turned into disaster. Judging from reports of additional Ming reinforcements massing in the north, it also seemed only a matter of time before a second, even larger offensive was launched against them. On March 3, 1598, three weeks after the fight for Tosan, a number of Hideyoshi’s daimyo commanders thus sent a letter back to Japan requesting permission to abandon some of their more vulnerable fortresses so that they could consolidate their forces at a few key points.
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Hideyoshi initially refused. He had launched his second invasion of Korea to punish the Koreans for not acceding to his demands, and to show the Chinese that he was a force to be reckoned with, a force fully equal to the Wanli emperor on his Celestial Throne. Hideyoshi’s pur
pose, in short, was to demonstrate his power. That is why he denied the request from his commanders to close some of their forts and consolidate their troops, for this would send his enemies entirely the wrong message: that he was vulnerable and weak rather than indomitable and strong.

On the other hand, the taiko had already achieved the basic objec
tive of his second invasion. The very act of sending his armies back to Korea had shown Beijing that he remained as strong and as determined as ever and could march through their tributary state any time he wished. As for punishing the Koreans, the gruesome Mound of Noses in Kyoto was ample proof of this. So what was the point of prolonging the campaign?

In fact there was none. With his demonstration of power already made, it was now mainly a question of how best to bring the affair to a close in a suitably face-saving way. Hideyoshi clearly felt that the closure of fortresses so soon after the end of the Ming winter offensive would undermine his message of strength and resolve, and so he would not approve it. Leaving his troops as they were in
Korea, however, was proving increasingly untenable. First, there was the problem of supplies. With Korea’s southern regions now devastated and depopulated after two invasions and six years of war, it was impossible for the Japanese forces stationed there to adhere to the taiko’s directive to live off the land. Much of the food they needed had to be shipped from Japan, a tremendous logistical burden considering the number of men to be fed. Hideyoshi also was undoubtedly sensitive to the risk he was running in keeping his army in Korea. Even if his troops managed to beat off a second Ming offensive, they would probably suffer heavy casualties and add little to the demonstration of power that had already been made. If they were defeated, conversely, untold damage would be done to Hideyoshi’s and in turn Japan’s reputation.

Considering these two factors—the difficulties of maintaining an army in
Korea and the balance of risk and reward—it was only a matter of time before the taiko accepted his commanders’ advice that a change had to be made in the deployment of his troops. On June 26, four months after the end of the Ming offensive and so ostensibly not precipitated by it, Hideyoshi dispatched orders to Korea recalling roughly half his troops to Japan, including the contingents led by Ukita Hideie, Mori Hidemoto, and Hachizuka Iemasa. Supreme Commander Kobayakawa Hideaki was also withdrawn. Forces remaining in Korea were encamped at Ulsan (10,000 men under Kato Kiyomasa); Sosaengpo (5,000 under Kuroda Nagamasa); Pusan (5,000 under Mori Yoshinari); Kimhae and Changwon (12,000 under Nabeshima Naoshige and Nabeshima Katsushige); Koje Island (1,000 under Yanagawa Tsunanobu); Kosong (7,000 under Tachibana Munetora); Sachon (10,000 under Shimazu Yoshihiro); Namhae Island (1,000 under So Yoshitoshi); and Sunchon (13,700 under Konishi Yukinaga)—a total of 64,700 men.
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Japan
’s war in Korea still had half a year to go. These troop withdrawals in June, however, marked the beginning of the end. From this point on Hideyoshi’s main concern would be extracting himself from the peninsula with his dignity intact.

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Eight months had now passed since Yi Sun-sin and the remnants of the Korean navy had stopped the Japanese fleet in the Battle of Myongnyang. It had been an important victory, for not only had Yi’s thirteen vessels prevailed over an enemy squadron of two hundred ships and more, they discouraged the Japanese from making any further attempt to advance westward along the coast. Upon receiving word of the Myongnyang engagement at his headquarters in
Seoul, supreme Ming commander Yang Hao observed that “There has never been such a great victory in recent years,” and ordered that a roll of red brocade and some silver be presented to Yi Sun-sin as a reward for his service. The Korean government meanwhile started mulling over the possibility of promoting Yi to junior first rank, the second-highest court rank in the land and normally reserved for the loftiest civil officials. Yi’s supporters pushed for the promotion, and rumors drifted south into Yi’s camp that the reward would soon be his. Not everyone, however, was eager to see him promoted. Certain government ministers claimed that Yi’s rank was already high enough, and that to raise him any higher would leave the government with nothing to confer on him when the war was finally won. Although they did not say so, these ministers may also have been reticent to see Yi placed on too high a pedestal, as this would further highlight their own mistake in throwing him in prison in early 1597 and dooming the Korean navy by turning it over to Won Kyun. Whatever the reason, Yi’s promotion was ultimately blocked. When the reward list was delivered to his base on December 24, most of Yi’s officers were on it, including An Wui, one of the captains who had lagged behind in the Battle of Myongnyang. Yi’s own name was not there. All he received was a commendation from the king and the presents from Yang Hao. Yi gives no hint of disappointment in his diary, but surely he must have felt slighted.
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After the Battle of Myongnyang, Yi Sun-sin led his diminutive naval forces thirty kilometers north from the scene of the engagement to establish a temporary base on the
island of Pohwa, off what is today the city of Mokpo. An Wui, now promoted to command of the Cholla Right Navy, was sent forward to his new station off the southern coast of Cholla to guard against a possible second Japanese advance toward the Yellow Sea. Not long after this, An for some reason abandoned his assigned position and fell back with his few ships to Yi’s base on Pohwa-do. Yi Sun-sin was annoyed by this, for An Wui “has left the sea lanes entirely open to the Japanese.” In his report to Seoul Yi clearly tied his decision to move his own base forward to this failure on the part of An to hold his assigned position in the front.
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On May 23, 1598, Yi Sun-sin led his ships east to establish a new base on the island of Kogum-do, fifty kilometers closer to the Japanese fortress belt but still well clear of their westernmost stronghold at Sunchon. Yang Hao in
Seoul was of the opinion that Yi should keep advancing and reclaim the Korean navy’s former base on Hansan Island, now in the heart of the Japanese perimeter and therefore a convenient launching point for strikes against their forts.
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Yi did not agree. Dire circumstances had forced him to expose himself and his men to extreme peril in the Battle of Myongnyang. With the Japanese confined to their chain of forts, there was no need to take such risks again by moving ahead to Hansan. Yi’s main concern now was to rebuild his navy in a place of safety. Kogum-do, he believed, was the ideal spot for this. The island was an even better base than Hansan-do, Yi observed, first for its strategic location in the waters off
Cholla Province, second for its mountainous and thus easily defensible terrain, and third for the excellent views in every direction that the tops of those mountains afforded.
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Yi’s most pressing task upon arriving at Kogum-do was to secure food for the eight thousand men that had already flocked to serve under him in the wake of the victory at Myongnyang. The ample population and farmland on the neighboring islands of Chi-do and Choyak-do held the promise of future supplies. To meet his more immediate needs, Yi instituted a system of passes for the hundreds of refugee boats travers
ing the sea lanes around Kogum-do, many of them on their way home after fleeing the Japanese naval advance. Large vessels were required to pay a levy of three
sok
of rice (a
sok
is equal to about five bushels); medium-sized ships two sok, and small ships one. Most were glad to pay, for the presence of the Korean navy in the area meant safety. In this manner Yi Sun-sin collected ten thousand sok of rice in the space of just ten days, enough to feed his men for the next several months.
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Yi now had men willing to fight and food enough to feed them. What he still did not have was ships. He had managed to stop the Japanese advance with just thirteen vessels, but to go on the offensive would require many more. Yi had set men to work building new war
ships and scraping together copper and iron to forge new cannons not long after the Battle of Myongnyang, when hope began to return that the Korean navy might survive.
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Ming commander Yang Hao in
Seoul aided the effort by dispatching emergency orders and presumably funds to shipyards nationwide, orders that by March of 1598 were already starting to be filled. By the twenty-eighth of the month the shipyard at Cholsan in the northwestern province of Pyongan had completed eight of an expected twenty ships; Changsangot in Hwanghae Province had churned out forty vessels and had just ten to go; Anmingot in Chungchong Province was only beginning work, but was expected to turn out ten; Byonsan in Cholla Province had refurbished thirteen vessels it had on hand and thus had just seven more ships to build from scratch to meet its quota of twenty. Shortly after Yi Sun-sin’s move to Kogum-do, therefore, sixty-one warships were finished and ready for delivery, and another thirty-nine were being built. The Korean navy was on the verge of returning to respectable strength.
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