Season 13, Episode 13: Losing Korea
The First Sino-Japanese war was nothing if not instructive. Although the Qing Army had proven itself capable in other contemporary conflicts, particularly their recent clash with the French, those successes now appeared to be flukes rather than signs of robust resurgence. Their loss to Japan - a nation over which they had historically enjoyed superiority - was yet another disaster in the midst of what their historians would later refer to as the “century of humiliation.”
At the conclusion of the war, the upper echelons of the Qing government naturally asked the question, “What in the hell just happened?” As far as those in higher leadership were aware, for decades China had been investing a large amount of cash, time, and resources in modernizing their army, navy, and military infrastructure. How could they have lost every single engagement with the Japanese army? The answer was extreme, endemic corruption.
Much as they might want to curtail the corruption that lined the pockets of mid- and lower-level officials with money earmarked for modernization efforts, the Qing Dynasty of the late 1800s had more immediate concerns. It was one thing for them to have been defeated in a war fought against better-equipped western powers, quite another to lose to a fellow Asian nation. The western powers interpreted this loss as a sign of weakness which they quickly moved to exploit. The competition that erupted as Britain, France, Germany, Russia and even Italy submitted demands to the Qing government for exclusive leases, increased territorial rights, and building contracts became known as “the scramble for China.”
We will come back to those demands in a bit, but first we should explore the aftermath of the First Sino-Japanese War in Korea itself, which was now under Japanese political domination. When Japanese troops seized control of the Joseon Royal Palace and returned Daewongun to high office as a puppet ruler, they also installed many of the former leaders of the failed Gapsin Coup as ranking officials. Had Kim Ok-gyun not been assassinated, he would have been among the new leaders of the new Korea.
After the seizure of government in July of 1894, Japan itself was preoccupied with the prosecution of the ensuing war with China, leaving the Korean leaders with something of a free hand in determining their future course. Over the next few years, Joseon’s government would be repeatedly altered and remade by a political effort called the Gabo Reform. The first phase in these reforms was largely the brainchild of the Korean leaders and was implemented during the First Sino-Japanese War.
That being said, the influence of the Meiji government’s particular brand of modernization is undeniable. Among the initial 210 reforms passed during phase one was the centralization of the Uijeongbu (Joseon’s Council of State), the establishment of a state bureaucracy which was almost identical to Meiji Japan’s, a centralized taxation system, and a new monetary policy which permitted Japanese currency to be used as legal tender within Korea’s domain. Ironically, the Donghak Rebellion paved the way for some of the other reforms, namely the official banning of slavery, an end to class discrimination, and official permission for widows to remarry. These measures were buoyed by popular support from much of the citizenry.
By December of 1894 it was clear that Japan was winning in their war against China, so its officials began to exercise a firmer hand in the reform effort on the Korean peninsula. They established an executive cabinet, which included Kim Hong-jip and Pak Hung-hio, both former leaders of the Gapsin Coup. This cabinet submitted a law code called “Hongbeom” or “Exemplary Rules” which was composed of 14 articles and meant to function as a kind of provisional constitution. It formally declared Korea’s independence from China and a cessation of its previous tributary relationship. Over two hundred articles were added soon after, which included an entire reorganization of Korea’s government -- disbanding the Uijeongbu and establishing the naegak, meaning “cabinet,” in its place. This was followed by a total reorganization of the regional governing bodies, establishing regions and districts throughout the nation. The entire judicial system was overhauled, including the police.
In early January of 1895, amid all of the activity of the second phase of the Gabu Reform, a new modernized army regiment was established in Korea. The Hullyeondae, or “Military Training Division,” was established originally as a new body of royal guards but eventually included three battalions numbering one thousand one hundred in total. Many of these modernized Korean soldiers were veterans of the battles of the Donghak Rebellion and they received special training and equipment from the Japanese. You may recall that the Japanese had previously established a modernized segment of the Joseon army called the Pyeolgigun, which led to the Imo Incident of 1882. In many ways the Hullyeondae could be thought of as Pyeolgigun 2.0.
Up to this point, the reforms had been overseen in part by Inoue Kaoru, who was replaced as resident Minister to Korea in September of 1895 by a man named Miura Goro. A career army officer, Miura Goro had cut his teeth fighting the Bakufu during the Boshin War and had also participated in the pacification of the Satsuma Rebellion. He rose through the ranks of army officers until he began to speak out against the general direction of the Imperial army’s brass, being especially critical of Yamagata Aritomo. Facing demotion for publicizing his criticism, Goro opted to resign his post in 1886 and then continued publishing articles critical of Aritomo’s military philosophies, preferring the French model of military to the Prussian.
Before his unceremonious departure from the army, he had been elevated to the rank of shishaku, or viscount, in the Kazoku peerage system. By 1890 he had carved out a little political space for himself and was appointed to the Upper House of the Imperial Diet. That being said, he was much more of a soldier than a politician.
When he arrived in Korea in September of 1895, his assessment of its situation was rather alarming. He was suspicious of the Russian presence on the peninsula, and greatly disliked the potential interference he expected from the Korean royal family.
He had good reasons to be suspicious of King Gojong and Queen Min. The reforms were extremely unpopular among the royal family themselves who, although they were without direct political power, still possessed a lingering public respect for their traditional offices. The members of the Hullyeondae had grown very close to their Japanese officers and trainers, and their favored status in the new political status quo led to occasional brawls against the army of Joseon. The situation could be compared to that of the Pyeolgigun, which you may recall led to the Imo Incident of 1882 in which the Japanese legation was temporarily expelled from the peninsula. That being said, the direction which Miura Goro chose to take after only being in-country for three weeks should, in my opinion, be considered a catastrophic blunder.
The trouble, as you might suspect, began with Queen Min. An outspoken leader who had been the de facto ruler of Korea before the Japanese seized the government, Queen Min certainly did not fit into the Japanese ideal of a quiet wife who tends the home and busies herself serving her husband and sons to the exclusion of all else. On October 7, 1895, Miura Goro was informed that Queen Min planned to issue a royal edict officially disbanding the Hullyeondae. In Goro’s mind, this edict was almost certainly part of a larger plan to expel the Japanese and perhaps invite a Russian occupation to take its place.
He summoned the regent Daewongun and discussed the matter with him. By his own later admission, Miura Goro possessed neither the temperament nor relevant experience necessary for a highly-placed diplomat. He was, primarily, a soldier. When all you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail.
The plan which Daewongun and Miura Goro formed was, to put it bluntly, the assassination of Queen Min. With the queen removed, Goro believed that the soft-willed king would accept Japanese reforms meekly and there would be no further resistance to modernization. Seems logical enough, but the delicacy required to ensure that such a plot will actually fulfill these rather complex geopolitical objectives was far beyond the capacity of Miura Goro.
On October 8, 1895, around a thousand Hullyeondae along with Japanese officers stormed the royal palace and searched for the queen. In a twist worthy of the Coen brothers, this search was difficult because no one involved in the plot had ever actually seen Queen Min. They proceeded to accost random ladies-in-waiting, pages, and servants, sometimes resorting to violence when they believed the person they were questioning was concealing the queen. A few skirmishes erupted with the official palace guards, but when the sounds of gunfire echoed through the hallways, most of the royal guard abandoned their posts.
Several court ladies were killed because they were mistaken for the queen and when one of the royal family’s ministers attempted to stop the plotters from entering the ladies’ quarters, where the queen was hiding, soldiers cut off his hands and he bled to death soon after. Shortly thereafter, the queen was discovered, killed, and beheaded. Her body was taken to a nearby forest, soaked in gasoline, and burned in what some believe was an attempt to conceal the violent nature of her death.
The rank-and-file plotters looted the palace afterward and departed piecemeal in the early morning hours. Several foreign envoys witnessed Hullyeondae soldiers leaving the palace and thought this rather odd. Within the palace, Daewongun reassured his son, a badly shaken King Gojong, that everything was fine. He gave him several documents to sign, but the king refused. These were official proclamations which were later issued without the customary royal seal. The king grew increasingly paranoid in the months ahead and became more and more isolated in the palace, surrounding himself with Russians and other foreigners hoping to deter the Japanese from granting him the same fate as his unfortunate wife.
In spite of ham-fisted attempts by Miura Goro and his co-conspirators to keep the matter a secret, the truth soon came tumbling out. There were several non-east Asian foreigners in the palace who witnessed bits and pieces of the affairs and they reported what they saw to their respective legations. Goro first claimed that the incident was the result of infighting between factions of the Korean armed forces, not entirely unbelievable considering how fractured the Joseon government had become. Then he claimed that some Japanese citizens were involved in the incident, but they did not actually participate in the violence themselves.
Within a few days of the incident, the Meiji government had been informed of everything - including Miura Goro’s involvement. Goro was recalled from his post along with several of his Japanese co-conspirators and the moment they set foot on Japanese soil they were arrested and charged with murder and conspiracy. We will discuss the results of that trial a little later on.
Over the next several months, King Gojong continued to isolate himself from government activity for fear of imminent assassination. Across Korea, anti-Japanese sentiment grew while pro-Russian sentiment eagerly filled the void. On February 11, 1896, a little over four months after Queen Min’s unceremonious murder, palace officials arranged for King Gojong to be sneaked out of the palace and taken to the Russian Legation, which was helpfully located right next door. News of this flight spread very rapidly and the pro-Japanese cabinet which was working on the fourth phase of the Gabo Reform, was soon placed in mortal danger.
Phase four included an extremely unpopular measure requiring married Korean men to cease wearing their hair in a special ceremonial topknot which was a symbol of their marital status. The King’s flight to the Russian Legation was certainly a shocking event on its own, but coupled with the relative unpopularity of the Gabo Reforms and outrage over the assassination of the queen, the Korean public was soon galvanized for action.
Riots ensued throughout the capital and the situation quickly deteriorated beyond the ability of anyone to gain control. King Gojong issued an order demanding the arrest of all cabinet members who had supported Japanese policy on the peninsula. Many of these officials attempted to slip through the crowds and escape but were recognized and very quickly lynched by an outraged populace.
A new cabinet was formed from the officials who had accompanied King Gojong into the welcoming arms of the Russian Embassy and they moved quickly to shift Korean focus away from Japan-centric modernization, favoring Russians and Americans instead. For some time, however, there was mass confusion in the streets regarding who, exactly, was now in charge, and what political direction Korea would take in the future. On July 7, 1896, reform-minded scholars formed the (독립협회) Doglibhyeobhoe, or Independence Club. This political organization published its own ideas through an in-house newspaper which, among other things, advocated for Korea to be transformed into a constitutional monarchy with a robust democratic foundation. This new Korea would be undergirded by equal rights, free speech, and a sovereignty that came from the people. As their name suggests, they also advocated for Korea to be kept independent, and for an end to foreigner favoritism which swung wildly in decades past between the Japanese, Chinese, Japanese again, and now Russian and American.
King Gojong, however, remained within the safety of the Russian embassy for a little over a year. This was not a tenable political situation, and I think even the king realized that he would eventually need to risk returning to his home soil just outside. When he did return on February 20, 1897, he and his cabinet had already formulated their own plan to propel Joseon into the future.
Having already established the Weonsubu, or “Board of Marshalls,” which centralized all military power directly to the sovereign, on October 13, 1897, King Gojong announced that the Joseon Kingdom would, henceforth, be known as “Taehan Jegug (대한제국)” -- the “Empire of Korea.” He declared that he would be known as the Gwangmu Emperor, taking the era name as his own, which is partly why political activity during this period of Korean history is called the “Gwangmu Reforms.”
In spite of its rather authoritarian-sounding name, the Korean Empire under the Gwangmu Reforms experienced a relative surge in its modernization, scoring such achievements as establishing an elementary public school system, the birth of Korea’s first western-style pharmacy, a new robust Health Care System, a fairly complete destruction of the traditional caste system, and several new infrastructure-improving joint ventures financed in part by foreign investors, particularly Americans.
The army was likewise reformed and continued on its path toward modernization, though they were now trained and commanded by Russian officers instead of Japanese. To a certain degree, it could be argued that Korea was largely imitating Meiji Japan’s own previous steps toward modernization, but while there are parallels, the emphasis on establishing independence and national sovereignty was certainly unique to the Korean Empire.
The Chinese government was particularly reluctant to recognize the ascension of their former tributary and, by extension, that of the new Gwangmu Emperor. This comes as little surprise, considering that China had, for several millennia, considered itself to be the one true east Asian empire with a capital e. Korea, Vietnam, and Japan were meant to be tributary states, little brothers in the landscape of far east geopolitics.
Japan greatly disliked the new influence which the Russian Empire seemed to hold over their peninsular neighbors, fearing that conflict with Russia was becoming an inevitability. This was not entirely paranoia, given what had happened just after the ink dried on the Treaty of Shimonoseki. You may recall that the terms of that treaty were exceedingly generous toward the Japanese and included a land concession from China that granted Japan possession of the Liaodong Peninsula. This strip of land to the northwest of the Korean Peninsula has been mentioned probably a dozen times in this podcast so far, as China and many other eastern powers had used Liaodong as a staging area for invading Korea. It was heavily fortified, contained Lushunko, or Port Arthur, which included drydock facilities, and the Meiji government was overjoyed when considering the control which owning Liaodong would give them over shipping in the north Yellow Sea. Their dream of establishing permanent naval superiority in the region would certainly not suffer by possessing Liaodong.
However, there was a problem. The Japanese were far from the only world power to understand the strategic value of the peninsula. The Treaty of Shimonoseki was signed on April 17, 1895. On April 23, just six days afterward, Japan found itself the subject of a diplomatic pressure campaign by a group of three concerned imperial nations. Russia was still on the hunt for a decent warm-water Pacific port and objected to this concession in part because they wanted Lushunko for their own purposes. France was allied with Russia at the time and backed their objection. Germany was also allied with Russia and lent their diplomatic acumen, in part, because they wanted Russia’s future support for their own global imperial ambitions. Compared with England, France, and Russia, Germany was a relative late-comer to global imperial conquests and acquisitions and was eager to catch up and balance the scales against their traditional enemies.
Although the Japanese government attempted to resist what was later called the “Triple Intervention,” they could not secure diplomatic support from Britain or the US. Being confident that Japan could not prevail against the combined armies and navies of Russia, Germany, and France, on May 5, 1895 they announced the withdrawal of all Japanese troops from Liaodong. What followed almost immediately afterward was the aforementioned scramble for China. Germany took control over large portions of Shandong, whose peninsula lies just to the south of Liaodong, and France also seized Guangzhou in the south. The most shocking and insultingly outrageous of these new acquisitions came from the Russian Empire, who swiftly moved to occupy Lushunko and the Liaodong Peninsula almost the moment that the Japanese had withdrawn.
None of these were blade-and-bullet conquests, but were exceedingly generous land-leases which these powers secured from the Chinese government, who was, at this point, desperate to mollify imperial powers and avoid getting into yet another losing conflict. Britain and the US likewise scooped up a few sweetheart leases which gave them increased control over China’s international trade and a good deal of state revenue via tariffs and customs duties.
Before closing out this episode, I promised we would discuss the fate of Miura Goro, the Japanese diplomat who arranged the assassination of Queen Min of Joseon in 1897. The trial process which Goro enjoyed in his native Japan was, to put it mildly, a fucking joke. The military court did not allow any non-Japanese witnesses to be called and those Japanese witnesses who accused Goro of impropriety were usually ruled out of order and their testimonies stricken from the record. Ultimately, Goro and his fellow co-conspirators were found not guilty due to lack of sufficient evidence in spite of the fact that he admitted, himself, on the stand, that he had arranged the murder of Queen Min.
At the trial’s end, he and his associates were feted in the Japanese press as heroes. Whatever foul deeds they had committed, they had committed them on Japan’s behalf. But surely he was drummed out of public life and retired in obscurity, right? Absolutely not. If anything, this incident catapulted his political career to new heights which he had not dared dream of beforehand. Eventually he would be a privy councilor.
Thus, as the 1800s drew to a close, Japan found itself both victor and victim. They had won the First Sino-Japanese war but then were tricked into giving up the Liaodong Peninsula by sneaky western nations who would stop at nothing short of their own subjugation. Much as the Meiji government might want to punish Russia, in particular, for its deceptive behavior, there were, as the saying goes, bigger fish to fry. Unrest in China was mounting once again and this time the many nations who now had special interest in China’s stability would advocate for direct intervention. Next time, we will discuss the Boxer movement which developed in China near the end of the 1800s, their ill-fated rebellion, and the international intervention which ensued.