Chapter 564: Circular Trade

In the fourth month of the eighth year of Chongzhen, the whole of northern China was thick with the clouds of war.

In the northwest, the Grand Marshal's headquarters gathered commanders and marshals in Lanzhou. From Golmud deep in Qinghai to the banks of the Yellow River adjoining Ningxia's Zhongwei, everywhere ten thousand horses galloped, streaming the grain, fodder, and ordnance to supply the great army's eastern campaign in wave after wave toward the east.

On the other side, in the Great Ming, Tri-Border Supreme Commander Hong Chengchou and Five-Province Supreme Commander Chen Qiyu assembled the commanders at Qingyang. They settled on a plan to contract the defense line along the Liupan Mountains to prevent each garrison's troops from being split up and annihilated. Afterward, they each went north and south, doing everything they could to muster grain and fodder at Ningxia Garrison City and Xi'an Prefecture respectively.

In the northeast, Hong Taiji was likewise itching for a fight. He once again ordered Khorchin's Baturu Khan, Jinong Badali, and Dorgon to prepare supplies along the route for a western campaign into Southern Mongolia. Only this time, his target was not the Great Ming's Xuan–Da region, but Yang Qi, who was entrenched in Southern Mongolia.

And Yang Qi of the Grand Marshal's Army's Southern Mongolia Protectorate… in this tense atmosphere of war preparations everywhere, Yang Qi's style was rather different from everyone else's. No one could find him.

In this land of bliss where there was nothing but happiness, Protector-General Yang was busy deceiving the Emperor, smuggling like mad, levying extortionate taxes, and enfeoffing vassals. In any case, as for proper matters related to war preparations, he did absolutely nothing. All day long he led his Han troops everywhere building irrigation works, and on the grasslands he cajoled and coerced the Mongols into farming. From last winter until now, he had been so busy his feet never touched the ground.

Even Shaktu Taiji and He Huchen and the others could not find Yang Qi. Communication between the two sides was entirely one-way, with Yang Qi writing them letters intermittently to tell them what to do next.

It was not that Yang Qi was stupid. He was as shrewd as a monkey and had a very clear understanding of his own situation. Put in his position, the moment he opened his eyes each day he had to laugh out loud: Heh, damn it, this old man has lived another day!

To his southwest was the murderous Ningxia Garrison; to his south, the bitter and vengeful Yansui Garrison; to his southeast, plague-stricken Shanxi and the Xuan–Da Garrison; to his east, the Kharchin tribe, which he had hammered last year and which was now nursing its grievances and biding its time.

And in his own hinterland, there were still a hundred thousand Outer Mongolia Mongol troops so hungry their eyes glowed red.

What war preparations was he supposed to make, and against whom? Staying alive was good enough. Above, below, left, right, and in the middle — damn it, they were all enemies.

So he had to keep moving, leading his Protectorate field headquarters in irregular, directionless movement across the grasslands: as long as even I myself don't know where I am, no one else can find me, and if they can't find me, they can't kill me — and as long as I live, the Southern Mongolia Protectorate lives.

The brutal reality simply did not permit him to consider the matter of the Later Jin army's revenge.

To fill his belly, Yang Qi stopped at nothing. In the west, he sent Mongol cavalry every day to the border beyond Ningxia to beg armed, asking Hong Chengchou for grain; in the east, in four months he wrote over eighty letters to Xuan–Da Supreme Commander Yang Sichang, exhausting every kind word, desperately trying to make Yang Sichang believe that those surnamed Yang stood on the same side.

In those eighty-odd letters, Yang Qi fashioned himself as a loyal subject of the Great Ming who had been defeated and taken prisoner, who stooped to serve the enemy and nursed his grievances until he finally got the chance to be posted to the frontier. He was now breaking with Liu Chengzong and would never return to Qinghai again.

He fed Yang Sichang a heap of specious intelligence — for instance, the strategic advantage the Later Jin now held over the Great Ming — laid out the reasons the Southern Mongolia Protectorate could serve as a powerful ally for the Great Ming beyond the border, and made a promise: if the Later Jin tried to bypass and raid Xuan–Da again, he would surely overcome all opposition and send troops to aid the Great Ming.

But saying was one thing; in his heart, Yang Qi was clear as a mirror. If Hong Taiji came to Southern Mongolia again, the one he would hit was definitely him, and he might even join forces with the Great Ming to hit him together.

Because Liu Chengzong had told him that the Later Jin's most pressing matter at the moment was to conquer the Mongols and seize the legacy of the fallen Northern Yuan. And in terms of the Northern Yuan's legacy, the Great Ming, founded on driving out the Tatar slaves, was no competitor at all. Only the Grand Marshal's headquarters and the Later Jin were butting heads on the Southern Mongolian grasslands.

On the surface, Yang Qi said he would be a powerful ally to the Great Ming, but in his heart, what he was thinking was that when the Later Jin came to beat him up, he would get the Great Ming to come help him fight.

What does it mean to eat soft rice toughly? It means making others not think you're eating soft rice at all.

Yang Sichang was nearly annoyed to death by Yang Qi. Letters delivered every day, every single day, as if he had an endless stream of things to say.

If it were in normal times, that would be one thing, but this spring Shanxi had an outbreak of plague, and the soldiers delivering Yang Qi's letters were still bringing the letters to him, crossing the epidemic zone with their eyes shut. Damn it, wasn't this just harming people?

And they couldn't be stopped. Yang Qi had the Directorate of Ceremonial's Brush-holding Eunuch Fang Zhenghua by his side, and the soldiers delivering his letters all carried transit documents stamped with the Directorate of Ceremonial's seal. No one dared stop them. In any case, Yang Sichang could choose not to read the letters, but Yang Qi made absolutely sure the letters could reach his side.

Now, the mere sight of the Directorate of Ceremonial's stamp made Yang Sichang nauseous. He thought to himself that if he ever caught a disease and dropped dead one day, even if it delayed his reincarnation, he would have to drag that dog of a Yang Qi along with him first.

As for all that nonsense Yang Qi used to fool ghosts, Yang Sichang did not believe a single word of it.

Because all those fine words ultimately pointed to one single goal — getting the Great Ming to provide him with army rations.

Yet, frustratingly, Yang Sichang really could do nothing about him, because this character was beyond the border, speaking the same words as Ligdan Khan and doing the same things as Ligdan Khan. Never mind whether he was the Grand Marshal's headquarters' Southern Mongolia Protector-General or a grievance-nursing loyal subject of the Great Ming — it didn't matter.

Throw anyone into the Southern Mongolian grasslands of this era, and the role they played and the things they could do were already predestined. He was a northern caitiff, and a northern caitiff could only do two things: trade his life for grain, or risk his life to steal grain.

In this environment, it was the same no matter who came.

Yang Sichang was genuinely afraid that Yang Qi, driven to a dead end, would turn hostile and lead Mongol cavalry in a breach of the border walls. The Xuan–Da border defense was already under enough pressure from the Later Jin; he really did not want to provoke one more beggar.

Besides, the geopolitics were right there. If Yang Qi wanted to live, he had to side with either the Great Ming or the Later Jin. No one in the imperial court trusted a man of Yang Qi's character, who had turned bandit; it wouldn't be surprising if this thing got desperate and defected to the eastern slaves again. But fortunately, Yang Qi was not a real northern caitiff.

When the north suffered disasters, the Ming court selling grain had long had precedents. Even now, the Kharchin tribe was still buying grain from the Ming court. It was a muddled account.

The various Mongol tribes were people too. If they could survive, they would not seek death; but if they truly had no grain, they could only take desperate risks.

To avoid this situation, the Ming court would choose to sell grain to the tribes. Although the Chongzhen Emperor was full of cunning, fearing that the grain once transported would end up aiding the enemy, he forbade the Mongols from reselling it to the Later Jin. He thought of rationing grain by headcount and ascertaining the number of starving people, but these measures were very difficult to implement.

Because even if the number of starving Mongols was fifty thousand, and the Ming court provided enough grain so that fifty thousand people would not starve to death, in the end a portion would still be sold to the Later Jin.

The reason was simple: the Mongols could not defeat the Later Jin. It was just a simple multiple-choice question: let a few people starve to death, or let a whole swath of people be killed.

When it came to Yang Qi, the matter was much simpler. After reporting to the Emperor, Yang Sichang explicitly told him that the imperial court would not provide full army rations. Since Yang Qi could get the various tribes to guard the border for the imperial court, he was permitted to trade at Zhangjiakou and Shahukou under the names of the Tümed and Khalkha tribes.

In any case, no matter how many horses you brought over, Zhangjiakou and Shahukou would provide at most twenty thousand shi of grain per month.

This was the Chongzhen Emperor's idea.

Zhangjiakou was surrounded by mountains on all sides and was the northern gate of Beijing, while Shahukou was the northern gate of Xuan Prefecture. Only by setting the mutual trade locations at these two places could they ensure that Yang Qi would place his troops in the old lands of the Tümed and Chahar. Then when the Later Jin came, they would hit him first, making this expenditure of grain more worthwhile.

Most crucially, Yang Sichang had inquired and learned that the Mongol tribal forces under Yang Qi exceeded a hundred thousand. Twenty thousand shi of grain per month was but a drop in the bucket. He had so many Mongol nobles under him, and the initiative in mutual trade rested with the imperial court. Whoever obeyed got a little more; whoever disobeyed got a little less. Using army rations to control this Mongol army — it might not even be impossible to sideline Yang Qi.

Yang Qi had naturally thought of this situation long ago. To him, it didn't matter, and he even specially submitted a memorial to the Chongzhen Emperor, overflowing with gratitude.

Because he had only four garrisons and a little over thirteen thousand men under his command. Even counting the Tümed and Ordos tribes, his combat troops numbered less than twenty thousand. In a place like Southern Mongolia, where raising horses was no worry, twenty thousand shi of grain a month would stuff him to death.

As for the hundred-thousand-strong army of the Outer Mongolia tribes? What did that hundred-thousand-strong army have to do with him, Yang Qi?

The three khans of Outer Mongolia were all planning to go home.

They had come south to escape the drought and wind disasters of the Outer Mongolia grasslands. Although fighting in the south had fattened the earth with several thousand men, it was still better than starving to death in the north. Besides, they had looted quite a few things. It was Yang Qi who had been luring them with land all along, which was why the armies of the three khans of Outer Mongolia had remained in Southern Mongolia.

But now, having made it through the harsh winter, the three khans of Outer Mongolia dared not stay any longer — any fool knew that the Later Jin had taken a beating last year and would definitely strike back this year. If they scurried back north now and submitted a memorial to Hong Taiji, they could still save face.

If they stayed in Southern Mongolia and fought another battle with the Later Jin, it was very possible that Hong Taiji would go straight to their homeland next year. By then, anyone taller than the wheel of a baby carriage shouldn't expect to live.

Besides, they couldn't sustain themselves by staying here. The Ming court had indeed given them market rewards at Ningxia, but people couldn't live on iron pots boiling silk alone.

But Yang Qi, in order to survive, had already become utterly unscrupulous. He actually contacted the nobles of the Outer Mongolia tribes and used grain to buy back the silk from the three Outer Mongolia tribes at a low price.

Not only that, he also promised the three khans: this place, Southern Mongolia, is the spoils of our joint military operations. Our Grand Marshal's headquarters cannot monopolize it alone. Besides, someone has to collect your Khalkha market rewards. Leave behind fifty thousand troops; I will provide the pastureland. When there's a war, they send troops; at other times, let them roam the grasslands, each living their own lives.

Yang Qi discussed this matter with the three khans of Outer Mongolia four times. By the second time, the three khans were somewhat tempted. By the third time, Yang Qi had already begun moving among the tribal armies, promising that as long as they stayed, a common soldier would be given a hereditary Ten-Household Head, a Ten-Household Head would become a Twenty-Household Head, a Twenty-Household Head would be promoted to Forty-Household Head, a Forty-Household Head to Hundred-Household Head, and a Hundred-Household Head to Thousand-Household Noyan.

The hereditary nobles of the Northern Yuan's otogs suffered a massive devaluation.

By this point, the numerous lower-ranking officers and nobles of Outer Mongolia could no longer hold back. They were practically fighting to stay. Sholui and the other two had no choice either and proposed a compromise: they could each leave six thousand troops, but Yang Qi had to guarantee that these eighteen thousand men would survive.

He was merely promising an empty hereditary noble title. In reality, the Southern Mongolian grasslands had nothing but land. The Ordos alone had been enfeoffed by Yang Qi into six Tümen-banners, which together mustered only four thousand able-bodied men. This man was like a madman. Even Sholui, who was the least concerned about troop strength, could not bear to leave his army to him.

Yang Qi said that was easy to handle. Wasn't it just rations for eighteen thousand men? I'll take care of half; for the rest, let them solve it themselves by herding and hunting. I don't want anything else, just the silk the Khalkha got from Ningxia through the market rewards.

"Don't you all complain that stuff tastes awful? I'll exchange it for grain for you — rice, fried flour, fine dried noodles, anything works."

The words were simple, but when it came to actually trading, Yang Qi's asking price was quite ruthless. Yet in these times on the Southern Mongolian grasslands, rice and fine dried noodles were hard currency, more valuable than iron knives and iron pots. The three khans of Outer Mongolia took the Shanxi Lu'an Prefecture silk and satin they had gotten from the market rewards, held their noses, and traded with Yang Qi for fried flour.

Yang Qi immediately turned around and sent Bai Wenxuan sneaking into the defense zone of Fu Renxi, Vice Commander-in-Chief of Xuan Prefecture: "Commander Fu, your troops — want some silk and satin? Lu silk, top-quality Lu silk from Lu'an Prefecture!"

The seventeenth-century circular trade had appeared.

The Ming court shipped silk from Lu'an Prefecture to Ningxia to fob off the northern desert nobles who wanted to buy grain. Yang Qi used grain to trade for the silk at low prices, then passed it through Fu Renxi's troops to sell it back into Shanxi at low prices, exchanging it for grain with the border soldiers under Fu Renxi.

The Shanxi border troops were so famished their eyes glowed green, yet the hungrier they got, the more fired up they became about this smuggling trade.

Though only a border wall stood between them, Lu silk and grain already traded at two different prices. Grain exchanged for silk outside the border, and once back inside, that silk could buy more grain from the merchants.

The Shanxi soldiers drove prices ruthlessly down; Yang Qi, eyes brimming with hot tears, still pocketed half. The Ming court's market-bestowed bounty of four hundred ninety thousand taels of silver was, through his circular trade, pumped into a GDP of two million taels.

No sooner had Shuolei and the others left with the main force than the hugely profiting Commander Yang had already dispatched four Chief Generals to search the grasslands for arable land and begun measuring out the fields.

The Tumed tribe's Guihua City had long possessed fortified farming settlements — originally the richest place on the grasslands. But the times had turned against them: the Tumed tribe fought great battles year after year and lost year after year, their people dying off until few remained, their fields abandoned and irrigation works fallen into disrepair. When Yang Qi fought his way into Guihua City, he cast covetous eyes on the lands of Fengzhou Marsh.

As early as the New Year, he had already laid down his words: "Even if I die tomorrow, today I will still get this land planted."

To keep this army alive, Yang Qi had grown so desperate he had abandoned all shame. Yet even after exhausting every scheme he could think of, he knew in his heart that whether this army survived until autumn depended mainly on luck.

If they could not survive the Later Jin's offensives, then no matter how much grain he swindled and cheated out of the Great Ming, it would all be for nothing.

For he was confident that with the thirteen thousand-odd men under his command, he could fight the Later Jin — the odds of losing were greater, but it was not a fight without a chance. Yet once this battle began, the one who lost in the end would surely be him. Even if he were fortunate enough to defeat the Later Jin, the Monan Commandery would cease to exist after the war.

And pinning their hopes of victory on the Xuan–Da Ming army — that, clearly, could only be left to luck.

Yet in the spring of the eighth year of Chongzhen, the most despairing man on the Monan grasslands was not Yang Qi, but another thirty-year-old Mongol noble: Saghang Sechen Khong Tayiji.

In the swirling vortex of an era that was tearing all Mongolia apart, Saghang Sechen Khong Tayiji stood utterly out of step with his times. He brushed the dust of campaign from his clothes and returned to his homeland in the Ordos, to the Eight White Yurts, the mausoleum of Genghis Khan. There, with a fierce hope born of despair, he took up his brush to compile a history for his people — a people born in war and soon to perish in war.

The book was titled Qad-un Ündüsün-ü Erdeni-yin Tobči, also known as — the Origin of the Mongols.