The Battle of Byeong-Oyangyo (1)
On the fifteenth day of the seventh lunar month in 1846, the 46-gun Heliopolis-class frigate Erigon lay motionless some ten nautical miles west of Ganghwado.
First Lieutenant Marie Jules Dupré stepped into the captain’s cabin.
“Captain Dupré, I bring the weather report for the commander. Clear skies. Barometer steady at 760 millimeters. The waves are Clapoteuse—little ripples. It seems there’ll be no obstacle to sailing. For Joseon, where the summer monsoon is said to be merciless, this is a surprising stroke of luck.”
“I don’t care to see the Foreign Missions Society meddle too much, but it really does seem God is on our side.”
It would have been a shame to leave out even the Almighty’s share in the credit.
It was thanks in no small part to Kim Dae-geon, the champion of Christ, that they had made it here from Shanghai via Baengnyeongdo without a hitch.
What’s more, Kim Dae-geon had informed them that if the transport ships carrying Ganghwado’s grain tribute were blockaded, Hanyang, the great city of three hundred thousand, would grind to a halt.
In other words, the Erigon could become the clot that choked Joseon’s main artery.
Unlike in the original history, where Captain Cécille had merely visited Chungcheong-do, delivered a letter, and gone home empty-handed, the present captain had seized this strategic point and genuinely intended to attack Joseon.
The timing had to be now. Captain Dupré agreed with that as well.
“Father André—Kim Dae-geon—expected Joseon’s defenses to be reinforced because of his escape, but there’s still no sign of any such preparations.”
“They probably had too little time. It was wise of us to hurry here, even if it meant leaving the gaps behind Gloire and Victorieuse behind us.”
The 54-gun frigate Gloire and the 24-gun corvette Victorieuse, the striking force of the East Asia Fleet, were currently making their way toward Vietnam.
The reason was the same as for Joseon. At any rate, the murder of a priest was not an unforeseen tragedy, but a routine diplomatic procedure for France.
In Vietnam’s case, they hadn’t even murdered the priest—only detained him. But that made no difference, because what France wanted was the excuse.
In the original timeline, Captain Cécille’s threat to Joseon—“Our warships will come next year”—had not been bluffing, because those warships really were on the way.
In the coming year, 1847, Captain Lapierre of Gloire would annihilate the main body of the Vietnamese navy at Da Nang.
And then he would hurry over to smash Joseon for good measure.
So Captain Cécille’s letter had not been pure hot air. At the time, France had no reason at all to hesitate before invading Joseon.
The so-called “strongest navy in East Asia,” the Vietnamese fleet, which had adopted Western military systems early on and even defeated the British navy in 1808, could not hold out. Joseon was hardly worth mentioning. If they had actually invaded, Taesu was confident he could have forced Joseon to open its ports thirty years early.
That is, if the British had not marked the depths on their charts five times deeper than they should have.
Still, it looked as though Captain Lapierre would not be reduced to begging Joseon for rice with tears in his eyes.
Captain Cécille’s plan was to defeat Joseon with just the Erigon, his flagship, and four hundred sailors—before the Joseon government finished reorganizing its defenses in response to Kim Dae-geon’s escape.
He had devised a kind of surprise attack.
Kim Dae-geon, like any priest worth the name, had clearly stated that he did not wish to see any loss of life. It would be enough if the Joseon government were pressured into tolerating the faith and easing the restrictions on foreign entry.
So Captain Cécille, who had always respected clergymen, had agreed to grant that wish.
According to his plan, no one—no white man—would get hurt.
“There are said to be fifty gun batteries out there. A head-on fight with those will be a bit troublesome.”
“Joseon will be more afraid of us than we are of them.”
“Most likely. Judging by the precedent of Lord Amherst’s visit twenty years ago, they’ll probably try to investigate our purpose first rather than attack outright.”
Joseon wanted to dismiss every Western vessel demanding trade as nothing more than a drifting accident. That was why they preferred to accept no diplomatic documents and simply feed the foreigners until they went away.
For France, that was perfectly fine.
And to do that, the Erigon would inevitably have to approach Ganghwado.
If they could seize an opening and land sailors somehow, then even a fully prepared Joseon battery would mean nothing.
“Once the local commander—Ganghwa magistrate—comes to contact us, I think it would be best to hand over a document protesting the murder of the priest. After that, we can use food supplies as our excuse and find an opening to go ashore.”
“Yes, we’ll need to be meticulous until the proper moment. What we must watch for is an accidental shot from a coastal outpost and… perhaps a preemptive strike from Joseon. Though the chance is slim.”
Captain Cécille snorted. With the sealed letter pinched between two fingers, he waved it eastward in mocking salute.
“With matchlocks and galleys? Unless the King of Joseon is insane, would he really do such a thing? Hah-hah.”
* * *
Unfortunately, King Lee Hwan of Joseon seemed to be insane.
And honestly, who could blame him? It was the reaction of a boy who had been buying metal bats, knives, and stun guns behind his family’s back and had finally come home to find an intruder in the house.
“Ganghwa is a place that concerns the nation’s guarantee of defense. The reason I ordered Chongwiyeong’s preparations in advance was precisely because the fools who can’t see the big picture kept telling me it wasn’t possible.”
The officials hesitated, wondering whether they ought to praise the king’s foresight. They decided, on reflection, that perhaps they ought not to.
The next thing he would say was obvious.
“Commander of Chongwi, Yi Yusu, immediately muster the troops and smash the sea vermin!”
It was the equivalent of telling someone, “The world’s strongest Qing and the Eight Banners of Mongolia may not be able to do it, but you can.” Burdened with such excessive expectations, Yi Yusu was thrown into confusion.
But he could not object.
To be honest, Lee Hwan’s reaction was more normal than France’s conduct.
As with imperialists everywhere, the “logic” Cécille put forward was absurd.
Why did you execute Westerners when you protected and returned Chinese, Japanese, and Manchu who entered your country?
Because the others were people who had drifted in by accident, while the Westerners had entered deliberately. One rather felt like asking whether France never executed spies.
Of course, racial bias was also part of it. But even in the West, white people and people of color were not subject to the same criminal law. Not even in the twenty-first century.
So Captain Cécille’s protest was nonsense from the beginning.
And the biggest reason he could not be indulged was the Erigon’s current position.
In the original history, when the Erigon came to Chungcheong-do, Lee Hwan had not even been this furious. He had simply held his breath, then once the French ships left, he slaughtered every convenient Joseon Catholic he could get his hands on.
But Ganghwado was a different matter. In the provinces, however many died, it was a matter for lamentation and little else. Seoul, however, was directly tied to the king’s life.
On this point alone, even the capital aristocrats shared an interest with the king. So no one dared offer any opposition.
The Andong Kim clan, as the central force of the old Noron faction, had once been fairly favorable toward Catholicism.
But now things were too dangerous. Kim Jwa-geun, a man who knew when to retreat, fell silent for a moment and sank into thought.
Thank goodness Byeong-gi is on Ganghwado.
No ordinary father’s worry for his son suited Kim Jwa-geun. He reached for brush, ink, and paper.
* * *
The French fleet had not yet docked at Ganghwado.
All the urgent developments were, at this point, known only to the powerful. The common people of Ganghwado were still carrying on with their lives.
Taesu was no different.
He looked around Ganghwa Nammunoeljang, feeling as though he had returned to his hometown.
Even the Mountain Spirit seemed to think this might really be his homeland.
[You are a bit early, but it is still a fine return in glory.]
The brocade clothes were not a metaphor for the fortune Taesu had made over the past couple of months in loan sharking.
No, they referred quite literally to the brocade draped over his back now, as part of his payment. Silk he had taken in lieu of interest from the Gaeseong Namdaemun market.
[Before you go looking for Yi Won-beom’s house, why don’t you put that on and dress like a Seoul byeolgam in a crimson brocade coat?]
“This is something to sell.”
By loan-shark standards, Taesu did not have much liquid capital.
Kim Sang-jun, whom Taesu had gutted, was never that big a fish to begin with, and most of what remained had been invested in the lending business and existed only on paper. He couldn’t go wasting it on nonsense.
So since he was in Ganghwado, he might as well sell silk too. Unlike Gaeseong, Ganghwado had no direct-import silk merchants from Qing, so it was a decent move.
After Taesu had wiped out the Gaeseong ginseng brokers at Seungcheonpo, Color Head Oh Bong-gil ran off, and his faction collapsed with him.
Thanks to the good fortune of bringing in one capable new man, the Bobusang Ganghwa branch had been able to seize control of Ganghwa Nammunoeljang.
That was why the public mood toward him was favorable. Taesu sat down on a trading mat arranged with Kim Sun-won’s help and took out his gombangdae.
He did not usually smoke that much.
But the deprivation of sensation was harder to endure than pain, especially for modern people ruled by smartphones. He could see why Joseon men and women alike walked around with pipes in their mouths all day.
[If you are so bored, why not study your letters? You blind little fool.]
Taesu pretended not to hear and struck a light. Waterproof matches could not be used forever, so he had gradually grown quite adept with flint and steel.
Fortunately, the Seongcheon incense tobacco he had gotten from Cha Un-hong suited a modern palate well enough. He even found himself wondering whether he could make cigarettes out of it and sell them.
Just then, he heard someone click his tongue in front of him.
“The silk itself is faultless—fine mixed-weave damask. But this is like shoving lamb into a dog’s mouth and sending it on its way. What kind of vain fool are you, handling a nobleman’s goods as if you mean to set them alight?”
It was a Joseon-style insult: the sort of rude commentary modern people would only post anonymously online, except here there was no internet, so he was shouting it proudly in real life. Still, the content was not wrong.
Taesu, smoking on top of expensive silk, carefully set his pipe aside first.
Then he looked up and stood.
The man before him was, inconveniently, wearing the crimson outer robe that the Mountain Spirit had just mentioned.
He was a byeolgam—a palace thug and official who ruled the nights of Seoul.
Modern “government-mafia” is a figurative term for officials who organize and seize interests like gangsters.
But in Joseon, the actual mobsters really did serve as government officials.
And not just any officials—they were the king’s closest men. Ever since King Yeongjo had made these thugs his own pincers, calling them wangin and even sealing them from the reach of the police commander, the byeolgam had had nothing to fear.
In reductionist terms, the byeolgam’s outfit was no different from a modern young gangster decked out in gold bracelets, designer brands, and a sports car over his tattooed body.
He could not possibly wear a grand official hat, but any seasoned merchant would recognize his Pyongyang-style straw cap at a glance, and behind it gleamed a riot of gold, silver, and amber hairpins.
The button-like piece securing the manggeon above his ears was a sea-turtle shell ornamental clasp.
It was not made of jade or gold, given his rank, but in terms of price it was no cheaper. The silk-padded vest beneath his robe and the sachets dangling from it were the same.
It was luxury pushed to the maximum allowed by the social order.
The Mountain Spirit said casually,
[Add up everything that brat is wearing, and it would cost far more than all your present assets combined.]
Taesu listened to that assessment closely. He felt rather pleased to have found a good target.
“A nobleman’s goods? This is mine.”
“You little—what is wrong with your mouth—”
“Worry about your own mouth first, you fucking bastard. What’s it to you if I burn someone else’s silk with my pipe or rub myself off holding it in my hand?”
[Hey. Of course any nobleman who comes to market isn’t likely to be a saint, but if he’s got a byeolgam at his side, he can’t be low-ranking…]
The byeolgam and the scholar were both even more flustered than the Mountain Spirit.
Having suffered a prompt-input error at Taesu’s rude answer, the byeolgam had no choice but to resort to a cliché roar.
“You truly don’t seem to value your life, do you? Do you even know who this man is?”
“Do you know me?”
Fear appeared on both the byeolgam’s and the scholar’s faces.
If the other man was merely rude, that would be infuriating. But if the other man was a lunatic—especially one carrying an axe—then one tended to feel something else entirely.
Meanwhile, Taesu and the Mountain Spirit were already talking at speed.
Look at him strutting around. Could he be that chaebol third-generation brat they said came to Ganghwado… what was his name, Kim Byeong-gi?
[A man of noble lineage. And use your head for once. Why would the son of the most powerful family in the land come wandering through a market? He is probably the illegitimate son of some great man. As for a byeolgam, he works palace affairs, so nine times out of ten he is a king—]
But the byeolgam was not about to wait that long.
“You mad dog. You island bumpkin peddler think there are no limits here?”
With practiced skill, the byeolgam kicked over the silk display table. The Qing silk he had just warned must not even be touched by a stray spark rolled dirtily across the market ground.
“If I don’t rip out your tongue today, then I am not Jang Sun-gyu of Jongno!”
No bobusang worth his salt would fail to know that name. The plan was obvious: scare the other man, then immediately send a fist crashing in and kneel him down.
That was the byeolgam’s last thought.
* * *
The young scholar could only stare at Taesu dumbly, not even thinking to wipe the blood that had splashed onto his own robe.
One moment, it seemed as though a lightning-fast left fist had landed in Byeolgam Jang Sun-gyu’s face; the next, as Sun-gyu reeled, a right hand had flashed in and crushed his mouth and nose at once.
Then, in the very next instant, a stabbing elbow drove into the philtrum and smashed the front teeth. Jang Sun-gyu took three consecutive blows to the face and went down like a sinking ship.
It was not just the force but the speed. The scholar was certain that Jang Sun-gyu had collapsed before he even had time to feel the pain.
Taesu stomped on Jang Sun-gyu’s face again and knocked him fully unconscious. He would never, ever touch the silk robe or the tortoiseshell hair clasp. Taesu was now a proper merchant.
The scholar looked around in confusion.
But the market was pretending not to notice the violence at all. To be fair, it had also pretended not to notice Jang Sun-gyu’s earlier rampage, so that was only fair.
Only when Taesu had removed Sun-gyu’s ornamental clasp and pulled out his hairpin did the scholar finally come to his senses.
“W-wait a moment… Listen. I am from the Yi family in Hanyang…”
“What, you’re related to Won-beom too?”
The scholar flinched.
“Ah… how did you know?”
Well, because the only Yi family Taesu had met so far was that one.
But the scholar, mistakenly believing Taesu had understood him in the way he wanted, hurriedly added, “In any case, please lower your hand. I may be a man of a small post under Prince Heungseon, so if this is compensation for disrupting your trade, I can pay it.”
Taesu’s hand stopped.
Not because he knew what sort of post a prince was.
It was because he knew the name “Heungseon,” even if only barely.