Chapter 81: Horse Administration

Chapter Eighty-One: The Horse Administration

Where lies the flaw in the horse administration of Ming? It is rooted in the court’s policy of having the common people rear horses.

It appears that the founding emperor harbored a strong aversion to large-scale bureaucratic operations. In many affairs, he sought to avoid such practices. This was true in iron smelting and equally so in the rearing of horses.

The founding emperor rose to power in the southern provinces, which lacked sufficient pasture for horses. Thus, he distributed horses among the households, turning this into a form of labor obligation, even setting standards for how many foals each horse must produce annually.

At first, the requirement was for one foal per year, nearly pushing the horse to its physiological limits. So, during the Hongxi reign, it was changed to one foal every two years.

Yet, many problems persisted.

The primary issue, as Zhu Qizhen saw it, was that these horses could not serve as warhorses. The reason was simple: Zhu Qizhen knew well what it meant for a peasant to raise a horse, but he also knew the demands placed on warhorses in the army. The horses reared by commoners were utterly unsuitable for the battlefield; they could only be used as draft animals.

Another problem was the confusion between government and civilian responsibilities, leading to endless complications.

First, there was the matter of compensation. Rearing horses was never risk-free; even in later times, livestock farming remained fraught with danger. If a government horse died, the compensation owed could bankrupt a family.

There were also issues of requisitioning and inspection. How could ordinary folk contend with the authorities? The so-called “official's word is law”—just a slight manipulation of the rules could subject one to unbearable torment.

Yu Qian had spoken at length to Zhu Qizhen about the many shortcomings of the horse administration. Zhu Qizhen had long considered reforming it one of his future priorities, even contemplating abolishing the system altogether.

What Zhu Qizhen did not realize was the depth of the harm caused by this policy. The so-called “Shandong bandits” were often horse-rearing households forced into crime by their obligation to rear horses, unable to earn enough otherwise.

During the Zhengde era, the great uprisings of Liu Liu and Liu Qi were led by people from horse-rearing families.

Later, when the policy was abolished and horse-rearing households paid silver instead, the Imperial Horse Bureau accumulated four million taels of silver during Zhang Juzheng’s time. The Imperial Horse Bureau was the dedicated horse-rearing institution; four million taels of silver was no small sum. This showed that the people would rather pay extra than rear horses themselves—paying more was at least finite, but rearing horses was a bottomless pit, always subject to extortion.

Nevertheless, Zhu Qizhen’s decision to abolish the horse administration depended on the Imperial Horse Bureau and its various horse depots.

At present, the court’s horses were mostly bred in these depots, located in the northwest, along the Great Wall, and even in Liaodong.

Yet, Zhu Qizhen understood the situation.

With the Oirat Mongols pressing south, the region outside the Great Wall—once the court’s main horse pasture, the so-called southern steppes, the area that would later become Inner Mongolia—was no longer under imperial control.

Last year’s battle in Datong was proof enough.

Therefore, Zhu Qizhen could no longer rely on the pastures outside the Great Wall. The northwest pastures became his only hope, and there were several horse depots there.

But with the loss of Shandan Garrison, Zhu Qizhen was uncertain whether the northwest pastures could be preserved.

In such circumstances, regardless of how pernicious or burdensome the horse administration was, Zhu Qizhen could not afford to change it. The number of horses bore directly on the nation’s strategic security.

How could Zhu Qizhen not be deeply vexed?

He understood now why Yu Qian had said Yang Rong would never permit such a thing. What Zhu Qizhen could see clearly now, Yang Rong had seen then: to ensure the court’s supply of horses, the northwest campaign was inevitable.

Yet war was never easy, especially under such conditions. Yang Rong would need to persuade the Inner Cabinet, win over the Grand Empress Dowager, then consult with Zhang Fu on the choice of commanders. All these arrangements would take time, likely not until the latter half of the year.

Zhu Qizhen asked, “For the northwest campaign, whom does Master Yu recommend?”

Yu Qian pondered for a moment. “Either Fang Zheng or Jiang Gui. Generals like Wu Xing have just been posted to their respective commands and cannot be moved lightly—the Grand Empress Dowager would never allow it.

Only Fang Zheng in Datong has a record of victory. Jiang Gui in Songpan likewise has won battles.

Both are former lieutenants of the Duke of England.

They followed the Duke south to Jiaozhi, north against the Tatars.”

Zhu Qizhen sighed inwardly: “A good leader makes all the difference.”

Often, a person’s longevity marks the extent of their influence—especially in politics.

The Duke’s former lieutenants were now heavily favored. Was it simply that only Zhang Fu’s faction produced talent in court?

No, it was because Zhang Fu remained, while the generals of the Campaign of Usurpation had all passed.

Thus, Zhang Fu’s influence was something the civil officials could not reject.

Even the Grand Empress Dowager had to appease Zhang Fu.

Gathering the Duke’s former lieutenants in the capital was absolutely forbidden. The Grand Empress Dowager’s appointed commanders could not be moved easily, as they had political tasks: stabilizing the south, keeping watch on certain people such as the Prince of Chu or notable figures in Nanjing.

But the Duke’s old lieutenants could campaign outside the capital with no issue.

Indeed, once the emperor’s position was secure, it would not be impossible to transfer these men to the capital.

Zhu Qizhen asked Wang Zhen, “Has Zhang Zhong arrived?”

Wang Zhen replied, “He has not yet come.”

Zhu Qizhen said, “Send word—tell him I have not seen him in days and miss him greatly.”

Wang Zhen promptly answered, “As you command.”

Whether Zhu Qizhen truly missed Zhang Zhong, few would dare probe—least of all the Duke of England, Zhang Fu. Still, Zhu Qizhen harbored no ill intent; he merely wished to inquire discreetly about Zhang Fu’s intentions.

This campaign, though not under his direct command, was something he welcomed.

For one reason only: What was the true fighting strength of the Ming army?

Zhu Qizhen needed to see for himself.

Otherwise, he would have no confidence. Everyone claimed the Ming army was no longer equal to its prime under the Yongle Emperor, that it was unfit for battle—but how unfit? The answer would determine his response.

“No,” Zhu Qizhen thought, “I cannot rely solely on memorials.”

He said, “Master Yu, return to Shuntian Prefecture to handle affairs. I will return to the palace and make some inquiries with the Embroidered Guards and Eastern Depot.”

Yu Qian immediately understood that Zhu Qizhen had matters he did not wish Yu Qian to know. Even though Zhu Qizhen regarded Yu Qian as his confidant—there were many court lecturers, but their lessons were scheduled days apart, each spending a morning with the emperor. Yu Qian, though he seemed to teach nothing, was summoned every afternoon for consultations, enjoying the privileges of a trusted minister.

Perhaps even his mentor Yang Shiqi, during the Prince of Ren’s residence, had not received such treatment. Yet it was only natural for the emperor to keep certain matters private.

Yu Qian said, “I take my leave, Your Majesty.”

After sending Yu Qian from the palace, Zhu Qizhen returned to the Qianqing Palace and immediately summoned Jin Ying and Ma Shun.

By the time Jin Ying and Ma Shun arrived, sweat poured from their brows.

They had not had an easy time lately.

The citywide purge had begun. Unknown numbers of fugitives were being rooted out from every shadowed corner.

This time, it was not only the Embroidered Guards and Eastern Depot, but also the Five City Battalion Command, Shuntian Prefecture, and even the Ministry of Justice.

Thus, apprehending suspects was one matter; coordinating among these agencies was another.

With the Grand Empress Dowager present, the Embroidered Guards and Eastern Depot lacked the prestige they wielded in the Yongle era. They had to follow proper procedures with each department. If their two leaders were absent, their subordinates would be bullied mercilessly by Ministry of Justice officials.

The two could only hold their ground.

Zhu Qizhen, upon seeing them, flung the memorial regarding the loss of Shandan Garrison before them and said, “The Embroidered Guards and Eastern Depot are the eyes and ears of the throne—why is it that this matter was reported by the Inner Cabinet?”

Jin Ying and Ma Shun exchanged a glance, silently bemoaning their fate.

Had their young master truly believed the Embroidered Guards and Eastern Depot possessed supernatural powers, that nothing could escape their notice?

He failed to understand that their presence was felt only in the two capitals; elsewhere, their sensitivity was scarcely greater than that of local officials and garrison officers.

But could they explain this now?

Of course not. When their superior was furious, there was only one response.

Both knelt and said, “We deserve death, Your Majesty.”