08. Uiju Life That Doesn’t Start From Zero (2)
Yi Wan, the Governor of Uiju.
In Joseon, there were only five governors across the Eight Provinces who were honored with the title Buyun Yeonggam (His Excellency, the Governor).
If one of those happened to be a relative of your clan—even if they only shared the same surname and ancestral seat—then no one in that region dared treat you carelessly.
Of course, how many people of the Yi clan of Deoksu would be living in Uiju? Still, compared to the days when my father was only the magistrate of Nampo, his influence had grown immensely, like heaven and earth exchanged.
The problem was Uiju’s situation itself.
Uiju was not unimportant, but the promotion of its magistrate to governor was a relatively recent development.
In 1593, when King Seonjo’s dream of fleeing to Liaodong collapsed and he shed bitter tears in Uiju, he elevated the office to hide his shame. That was only thirty years ago.
And just recently, Yi Gwal’s Rebellion had erupted, with government troops dragged south, leaving all lands north of the Daeryeong River branded as traitorous.
But the greatest problem was this: Uiju was the very first place to be struck whenever the barbarians invaded.
For all these reasons, Uiju was a troublesome region.
“Secretary Yi, the fortress construction at Yonggol Mountain should be nearing completion by now. Is it going well?”
“Yes, Excellency. I’ve been working with the magistrate of Yongcheon on this project, and it is nearly finished. Monks from Pyeongan-do with experience in fortress building are carefully overseeing it.”
“According to your plan, the people of Uiju, Yongcheon, and both districts will evacuate inside Yonggol Fortress in times of crisis. So it must be made secure.”
“Understood.”
The King had thrown the troublesome matter of Uiju to my great-uncle but granted him some authority in return.
Thanks to that, my great-uncle could also command Yongcheon and Cheolsan nearby. He could not act entirely freely, but at least he no longer had to report every detail to the governor of Pyongyang.
I, now accustomed to being called Secretary, gave detailed answers as needed.
What? A seventeen-year-old as secretary?
When the rebellion ended and King Injo returned to the capital, he personally held a special military exam. Because it would damage the throne’s prestige if a militia hero of Hanyang never sat for the exams, I was pushed to take part—and proudly passed.
After that, Father resigned from his post, saying, “Now you serve His Excellency.” Thus, I succeeded him as secretary, and he in turn succeeded me as the Yi clan’s devilish drillmaster.
“Is Cheolsan still suffering from those rogues from Mo-yong causing trouble?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“I cannot overlook this any longer. Judge Choi, order Commander Jin to capture them at once.”
“Yes, Excellency.”
Next to our problematic Uiju lived the most infuriating man: Mo Mun-ryong.
No, not “lived”—“parasitized” would be more accurate.
This parasite, once a Ming naval commander, used to beg the Joseon court for military funds. Now he openly plundered the people of Cheolsan.
Even Magistrate Ahn of Cheolsan was at his wit’s end. But who would dare punish a Ming general?
Of course, my great-uncle cared nothing for such matters. But beating that man would only lower his rank.
“His deeds may be wicked, but as a general of the Celestial Kingdom, we cannot touch him.”
“So we are to leave him be?”
At my careful words, my great-uncle frowned.
Of course he wanted to tear the man to pieces. But what good would it be if we ourselves suffered losses?
There’s an old saying: Use another’s knife to kill your enemy.
“No. But if it is not known who punished the Ming soldiers, would it not be acceptable?”
“What do you mean?”
“It will not be a problem, if no one can say who did it.”
Yes—if no one knows, it doesn’t matter.
Perhaps some righteous recluse of Cheolsan will appear, shouting:
“Alas! The honor of the Great Ming has fallen to the ground!”
And then turn Mo Mun-ryong’s officers into minced meat before disappearing.
“Besides, Secretary Yi Hoon has been training the Yi clan youths harshly of late. It might be good to let them stretch their limbs a bit.”
“Very well. Do so. But they must not be caught. Otherwise, rumors will spread that we use private soldiers.”
“I will order them to disguise themselves well.”
“Then… what exactly are we to do, Excellency?”
Standing awkwardly in between, Judge Choi Mong-ryang could not grasp the Yi family’s schemes and asked again.
“It is nothing, Judge. Just that a righteous hero may happen to pass through Cheolsan.”
“Then…”
“It means an unseen hand shall deliver justice.”
“Ah…”
Naïve Judge Choi, who had entered office after forty and was now nearly fifty, finally nodded with a smile.
Everyone knew the northern winds were turning violent. The question was: did we have the strength to withstand them?
Two years ago, I gave 2,500 of the 3,000 silver taels I received in support to Sim Hak-gyu.
My command was simple, yet difficult:
“Within two years, build the greatest trading company in Gwanseo.”
How he did it, I did not instruct. I didn’t know myself.
Fortunately, having gathered peddlers and merchants from all over, Sim Hak-gyu confidently replied, “It will take only one year.”
And his confidence was no lie.
“Well, how goes business? Where is Chairman Sim?”
“Ah, young master! Thanks to you, business thrives daily. The chairman is inside.”
“That is good. Then this month’s quota should be met?”
“Of course. More than enough. Rice prices have soared, so profits are high.”
In just one year, the Deok-yeop Trading Company (德業商會), named by Sim Hak-gyu, had stabilized all of turbulent Pyeongan Province.
The know-how? Simple.
Merchants had always been despised for roaming freely and stabbing backs. When the rebellion broke out, great merchants bribed rebels to survive and were branded traitors. Small peddlers sold military secrets and were arrested.
Guilt or innocence didn’t matter.
South of Pyongyang things were stable, but elsewhere officials were desperate to survive and gain favor with the court.
So when His Majesty declared, “Arrest all traitors in the Eight Provinces,” everyone eagerly pounced.
Thus, merchants—already hated—were wiped out, leaving a void for Chairman Sim to fill.
“I hear some even trade privately with Ming. Is it true?”
“Ah… how could that already reach your ears…”
“Don’t forget whose man you are, Chairman Sim. If you act first and report later, you know well what will happen.”
“Yes, I will remember.”
Private trade with Ming was illegal. But it was also the most profitable.
I had no intent to prattle about law and morality now. But everything had to remain within my control.
And the trade route was obvious: Shindmi Island and Gado.
Straightening the wrinkled collar of a merchant with my own hands, I saw him tremble with gratitude.
Such humble gestures moved them more than words.
“Ah, young master, you’re here. Please, come inside.”
“There you are, Chairman Sim. Let’s go. And Mr. Jo, don’t forget my words.”
“Y-yes!”
Inside, Sim Hak-gyu greeted me with a smiling face. As he led me in, he whispered to Jo, still frozen with emotion behind us:
“Mr. Jo, we’ll speak later.”
“Yes, Chairman…”
It was a proper company. Paying taxes, giving back to the community, feeding Uiju devastated by rebellion. Truly, a good group of merchants.
“So what brings you personally, young master? Your father visited just yesterday.”
“He went for Cheolsan matters. I’m here about the private trade Mr. Jo mentioned.”
“Shall we stop it? The Ming commander who controls Shindmi and Gado demands ever more money.”
“No, continue. I came to say that. But I do have a request.”
“Please, speak. How could I ever refuse, when the fate of the Sim family rests with you and His Excellency?”
Over two and a half years had passed since Yi Gwal’s Rebellion.
Back then, I believed I had chosen men of promise. By October 1626, barely seventy percent still remembered grace and loyalty.
Still, none spread reckless rumors, and even those tied to me only for money generally upheld their honor.
Among them, the Sim family’s loyalty was strongest. Especially since his kind-hearted son Sim Chung began running orphan relief for Uiju, Cheolsan, and Yongcheon, Sim Hak-gyu followed my words without hesitation.
Though his thick beard obscured his face, his grave eyes showed his sincerity.
I nodded slightly, smiling.
“While traveling to Shindmi and Gado, gather information. About the Ming troops—where they are, how many, and so on. Use drink or bribes if needed.”
“That requires the right man… do we have anyone in the spy group to spare?”
“You mean the Go brothers?”
Sim Hak-gyu only nodded.
The Go brothers—sons of Ko Hyo-nae, a surrendered Japanese who had sided with Yi Gwal.
At An-hyeon, when Yi Gwal’s army was crushed, my great-uncle’s troops captured Ko. He bargained: “Kill me if you must, but spare my five sons, and I will tell you where the ringleaders fled.”
It was unheard of in Joseon to make a legal deal. But after losing my cousin Yi Shin, my great-uncle wrestled with whether it was right to punish children for their father’s crimes.
In the end, he confessed his dilemma to me.
What more was there to think? Kill both father and sons and it ends.
I agreed at once, and my great-uncle relented.
Ko wrote a letter to his sons, revealed the ringleaders’ hiding place, and was executed. A true father, in his way.
His five sons fled as far as Guseong, but as they tried to cross into Later Jin territory, they met me.
When I showed them their father’s letter, they knelt, calling me little master.
“The Go brothers are surrendered Japanese. Won’t their looks draw suspicion?”
“Those who always say, ‘The invisible blade is most dangerous,’ will hardly be caught themselves.”
“…Very well. I will try them.”
“Thank you, young master.”
At first, I had hoped they might be Goguryeo royal descendants. But that hope shattered—especially when they wore black tights under their robes, looking like ninjas.
Not Yi-ninjas, but Go-ninjas—what a joke. Yet, true to ninjas, their skills were infiltration, spying, and gathering information.
Thanks to them, I could finally run a proper spy network, as Admiral Yi Sun-sin had always emphasized.
Three of the brothers were likely across the Amnok River now. The youngest, Go Oh-hwan, would still be in Uiju.
“Go Oh-hwan should be here.”
“…That name never fails to sound odd.”
I think the same.
Barely three months remained until the Jeongmyo War (Manchu invasion of 1627).
Soon, even such crude jokes would be luxuries we could not afford.
Until then, I had to prepare everything I could—to keep my family safe.
