CHAPTER TWO

Revolution

At around noon on October 9, 1911, a partly completed bomb exploded in a house owned by a Chinese army officer in the Russian concession at Hankou, the main commercial city of central China, two days downriver from Changsha.¹ The man who had been making it, Sun Wu, was the youthful leader of the Forward Together Society, a splinter group of the Tongmenghui, the secret Revolutionary Alliance led by the Cantonese anti-monarchist, Sun Yat-sen.²

Sun Wu's friends succeeded in getting him to the safety of a Japanese hospital. But the concession police searched the house, and found revolutionary flags and proclamations and a list of activists. The Qing authorities sprang into action. Thirty-two people were arrested and, next day at dawn, three of the leaders were executed. The Manchu Viceroy, Ruizheng, telegraphed Beijing: ‘Now all … is peaceful and quiet. This case was broken so early that the area was not harmed.’

The executions proved a fatal mistake. Rumours spread among the Han troops garrisoned across the river at Wuchang that the Viceroy was planning wholesale reprisals against all who were not of Manchu blood. That evening an engineering battalion mutinied. Officers who resisted were shot. Two infantry regiments joined them; then an artillery regiment. The heaviest fighting, which took several hundred lives, was around the Viceroy's yamen, which was defended by a machine-gun emplacement. In the early hours of the morning, Ruizheng fled aboard a Chinese gunboat, leaving Wuchang in the insurgents’ hands. Years of revolutionary agitation had finally paid off. Yet victory, when it came, was fiercer and bloodier than its architects had planned. The white flags of the rebels, edged with red, bore the legend, ‘Xin Han, Mie Man’ – ‘Long Live the Han, Exterminate the Manchu’.³ The Manchu 30th Regiment was virtually wiped out in a racial massacre. A civilian pogrom followed. Three days afterwards, a local missionary counted 800 Manchu corpses lying in the streets, ‘fifty being heaped together outside one gate alone’.⁴

Revolutionary proclamations appeared, inflaming feelings further. The ‘descendants of Holy Han’, one asserted, were ‘sleeping on brushwood and eating gall’ under the yoke of a northern, nomadic tribe.⁵ Another diatribe warned:

The Manchu government has been tyrannical, cruel, insane and unconscious, inflicting heavy taxations and stripping the people of their marrow … Recollect that when the Manchus first entered the Chinese domain, cities full of men and women were put to the sword without exception … To leave the wrongs of our forefathers unavenged would shame us who are gentlemen. Therefore all our brothers should … help the revolutionary army in the extirpation of such barbarous aliens … Today's opportunity is bestowed on us by Great Heaven. If we do not seize and make use of it, until what time shall we wait then?⁶

The outside world reserved judgement. In London, The Times reported that most educated Chinese unreservedly supported the revolution, adding snootily: ‘Little sympathy is expressed for the corrupt and effete Manchu dynasty with its Eunuchs and other barbaric surroundings.’⁷

But there was little sense that history was in the making, that the obscure events unfolding in Wuchang were the harbingers of millennial change for the oldest and most populous of the world's nations. No one predicted the imminent collapse of a system of rule that had endured without interruption since pre-Christian times, longer than any other in history. Indeed the prevailing view then, and for several weeks after, was that the imperial house would rally, and as had happened so often in the past, the rebellion would eventually be put down.

Chinese bonds weakened slightly, but financial markets took the view that the movement would probably be beneficial to foreign commerce with China. Even in the English-language newspapers in Shanghai, first reports of the revolution had to compete for space with the Italian bombardment of Tripoli; the assassination of Prince Troubetzkoy by a student in Novocherkassk; the illness of Prince Luitpold, the ninety-year-old Regent of Bavaria, who had caught a chill while out stag-hunting; and ‘the most brilliant wedding of the year, at St Peter's, Eaton Square, between Earl Percy and Lady Gordon Lennox’.

Only in Beijing itself was the true gravity of the situation recognised. Guards were doubled outside the palaces of the Prince Regent and other dignitaries; imperial cavalry patrolled the streets; and as reports came in of Manchu families in the provinces being hunted down and killed by revolutionary mobs, Manchu women in the capital abandoned their elaborate hair ornaments and characteristic high-soled shoes and started wearing Chinese dress.⁸

Mao was in Changsha when these events occurred. Six months earlier he had come by riverboat from Xiangtan, carrying with him a letter of recommendation from one of his teachers, who had helped him convince his father that he should enrol at a secondary school in the capital for students from Xiangxiang county.⁹

He had heard before setting out, he said later, that it was ‘a magnificent place’, with ‘many people, numerous schools and the yamen of the Governor’, but his first sight of the city as the little steamer came slowly downstream must have exceeded all his imaginings.¹⁰ A ‘perpendicular wall, of noble grey-stone blocks’ reared up from the water's edge, fifty feet thick at its base and more than two miles long, with a forest of junks before it.¹¹ Inland it continued for eight miles more, with ramparts 40 feet high, wide enough at the top for three carriages to ride abreast, encircling the city like a medieval fortress, which indeed it was. On each quarter, the wall was pierced by two massive gates, guarded by militiamen wearing dark blue turbans, short military cloaks with red cloud-pattern collars and brightly coloured facings, wide, loose sleeves, and cotton trousers tied at the calf. They were armed with a motley collection of spears, halberds, tridents, two-handed swords, muskets, flintlock and even matchlock guns.

Within lay a warren of grey-tiled roofs and ‘dark tunnel-like streets, burrowing away into the city's heart’, paved with granite slabs, often no more than six feet wide, and reeking with squalour and bad smells, ‘all the encumbrances and filth of too much living like spawn’, as one Western resident put it. But, hidden from view behind windowless street-walls, were also splendid mansions, where the great officials lived among ‘flower-decked courtyards, gracious reception halls with stately blackwood furniture and wall paintings on silk scrolls’, and two immense Confucian temples, with curved yellow-tiled roofs and vast teak columns, surrounded by ancient cypress trees.

In the commercial district, during business hours, the wooden shopfronts were removed, so that the shops opened directly on to the street, and bamboo matting was stretched over poles between the roofs, turning parts of the city into an immense covered arcade. Long hanging wooden shop-signs, written in gold characters on a black lacquer ground, greeted prospective customers and advertised what was on sale.

There were no bicycles, no motor-cars, no rickshaws.¹² The wealthy used sedan chairs. For everyone else the main form of transport, whether for people or goods, was the humble wheelbarrow. All day long the city resounded with the deafening squeals of ungreased axles, as labourers hauled loads of coal, salt, antimony and opium; firecrackers, calico and linen; and medicinal supplies of foxglove, monkswood, and rhubarb, to the junks along the river. Water was carried in on men's backs, in buckets slung from bamboo poles, from the ‘Sand Spring’ by the South Gate. Pedlars cried their wares, or made their presence known by shaking wooden rattles and bells. The sweetmeat-seller had a tiny gong and chanted, in a thick Hunanese accent:

They cure the deaf and heal the lame,
Preserve the teeth of the aged dame!¹³

Daoist monks, in dark blue robes, and Buddhists, wearing saffron, walked in procession, chanting prayers for the sick. Beggars, blind or hideously disfigured, sat at the roadside asking for alms, and each year extorted ‘squeeze’ from the householders, promising in return to stay a respectable distance from their homes.

At dusk, the wooden boards were replaced on the shopfronts. The pious bowed three times, to heaven, earth and man, and placed glowing sticks of incense over their doors to protect them from evil during the night. The city gates were dosed, each secured by a huge beam which took three men to lift. There was electricity at the Governor's yamen and in the Western-style houses on an island in the river where the foreign consuls lived. But in the rest of the city, the only light was from the sputtering wicks of small oil-lamps provided by the street guilds. Later, the district gates were locked too, isolating the different wards of the city. After that, the only sound was the sharp crack of the constable's stick striking a long bamboo gong as he beat out the watches of the night.

Mao had at first been doubtful whether he would be able to stay in the city: ‘I [was] exceedingly excited, half fearing that I would be refused entrance, hardly daring to hope that I would actually become a student in this great school.’¹⁴ To his surprise, he was accepted without difficulty. In the event, however, the six months he spent at the middle school did more for his political education than for his academic progress.

Changsha had been seething with anti-Manchu feeling since the rice riots the year before. Secret societies put up placards, calling in cryptic language for the Han to rise: ‘All should bind their heads with a white kerchief and each should carry a sword … The eighteen provinces of China will be returned to the descendants of [the legendary Chinese emperor] Shen Nong.’ The slogan ‘Revolt and drive out the Manchus’ was chalked up on walls.¹⁵

That spring, soon after Mao's arrival, came news of an anti-Manchu uprising in Canton under the leadership of a Hunanese revolutionary named Huang Xing, in which seventy-two radicals had been killed. Mao read about it in the Minli Bao (People's Strength), which supported the revolutionary cause. It was the first newspaper he had seen, and he remembered afterwards how impressed he had been that it was so ‘full of stimulating material’. Here, too, he first encountered the name of Sun Yat-sen and the Tongmenghui, then based in Japan. It inspired him to write a poster, which he put up on the school wall, calling for a new government with Sun as President, Kang Youwei as Premier and Liang Qichao, Minister of Foreign Affairs. It was, he admitted later, a ‘somewhat muddled’ effort:¹⁶ Kang and Liang were both constitutional monarchists, opposed to republican government. But Mao's new willingness to renounce the Empire, and the fact that he had been moved for the first time to try to give public expression to his political ideas, showed how a few weeks in the city had already changed his thinking.

This was demonstrated most dramatically by his attitude to the queue. At Dongshan he and the other schoolboys had ridiculed one of the teachers who had had his queue cut off while studying in Japan, and now wore a false one in its place. The ‘false foreign devil’, they called him. Now, Mao and one of his friends clipped off their own pigtails in a show of  anti-Manchu defiance, and when others who had promised to do likewise failed to keep their word, ‘my friend and I … assaulted them in secret and forcibly removed their queues, a total of more than ten falling victim to our shears’.¹⁷ Similar scenes had been taking place in schools in Changsha and Wuchang since the beginning of the year, horrifying traditionalists – who held that hair was a gift from one's parents and destroying it a violation of filial piety – no less than, for quite different reasons, the Manchu authorities.¹⁸

Two other events occurred in April which helped to bring the Hunan gentry on to the revolutionaries’ side. The Court announced the appointment of a cabinet, which the elite had long been demanding as a step towards constitutional government. But, to the fury of reformists, it was dominated by Manchu princes. It also became known that the government intended to nationalise the railway companies as a preliminary to accepting foreign loans to finance railroad construction, which was widely regarded as a sell-out to the Powers. These issues, Mao recalled, made the students in his school ‘more and more agitated’, and when in May the foreign loans were confirmed, most of the schools went on strike.¹⁹ With other boys of his age, he went to listen to older students making revolutionary speeches at open-air meetings outside the city walls. ‘I still remember’, he wrote later, ‘how one student, while making a speech, ripped off his long gown and said, “Let's hurry to get some military training and be ready to fight.”’²⁰ Inflammatory handbills were posted, and the situation appeared so threatening that Britain and Japan sent gunboats. By summer, a precarious calm was restored, but anti-Manchu rallies continued at the site of the former imperial examination halls. The reformist gentry gathered under the guise of holding meetings of the Wenxue Hui, the Association for Literary Studies, to discuss the dynasty's impending collapse.²¹ In neighbouring Sichuan, a full-scale rebellion broke out.

On Friday, October 13, a Chinese steamer arrived in Changsha, bringing the first confused reports of the rising in Wuchang.²² The passengers spoke of fighting between army units, of the sound of firing from the military camps, and of reports of soldiers tearing off the red facings and insignia from their black winter uniforms and putting on white armbands instead.²³ But nobody seemed certain who was fighting whom or what the outcome was. In 1911, the Hunanese capital was linked to the outside world by a single telegraph line to Hankou and that weekend it was down.²⁴ Even the officials at the governor's yamen had no way to discover what was going on.

The following Monday, the 16th, there was a run on the provincial banks, which ended only when the Governor sent fully armed militia detachments to stand guard outside. Most schools suspended classes.²⁵ The British consul, Bertram Giles, warned his legation in Beijing: ‘News is scarce, wild rumours are current and great excitement prevails.’²⁶ That evening, a Japanese steamer arrived from Hankou with a thousand passengers aboard, who provided detailed accounts of the revolutionaries’ success.²⁷ Next day, Mr Giles noted, ‘a distinct change in the situation was perceptible’.²⁸

The new arrivals included emissaries from the Wuchang revolutionaries, who had come to urge fellow radicals in the Hunan garrison to speed up plans for their own mutiny. One of them visited Mao's school:

[He] made a stirring speech, with the permission of the principal. Seven or eight students arose in the assembly and supported him with vigorous denunciation of the Manchus, and calls for action to establish the Republic. Everyone listened with complete attention. Not a sound was heard as the orator of the revolution … spoke before the excited students.²⁹

A few days later, Mao and a group of classmates, fired by what they had heard, decided to go to Hankou to join the revolutionary army. Their friends collected money to pay their steamer tickets. But events moved ahead of them before they could set out.

While the revolutionaries plotted, the Governor took counter-measures.³⁰ The regular garrison troops, the 49th and 50th regiments, which were known to have been infiltrated by the radicals, were redeployed to other districts away from the provincial capital. The 600 men who remained, in a barracks outside the East Gate, were ordered to surrender their ammunition. The militia, who were judged more reliable, were substantially reinforced.

The first attempt by the revolutionaries to take the city by stratagem, on Wednesday night, failed. The men at the East Gate barracks set fire to some straw in the stables, and then demanded that the city gates be opened to allow fire-engines to pass. The militia, pleading neutrality, refused. But in the confusion, the garrison men recovered most of their ammunition, which had been locked in a nearby arsenal. As a result their next foray, on Sunday morning, turned out very differently. Mao gave his own account of what he saw that day:

I went to borrow some [oilskin boots] from a friend in the army who was quartered outside the city. I was stopped by the garrison guards. The place had become very active, the soldiers … were pouring into the streets. Rebels were approaching the city … and fighting had began. A big battle occurred outside the city walls … There was at the same time an insurrection within the city, and the gates were stormed and taken by Chinese labourers. Through one of the gates I re-entered the city. Then I stood on a high place and watched the battle, until I saw the Han flag raised over the yamen.³¹

Even now, it makes dramatic reading. Unfortunately, so little of it is true that one might be forgiven for wondering whether Mao was there at all. There were no rebels, no battle, no insurrection and the gates were not stormed. Mr Giles, the British consul, reported drily:

At 9.30 a.m. [I was informed] … that a number of the regular troops had entered the city, where they had been joined by certain representative revolutionaries and had proceeded to the Governor's yamen … The militia, adhering to their policy of neutrality, had refused to close the city gates [which were already open for the day]; and the Governor's bodyguard, already won over, offered no resistance. By 2 p.m. the whole city was in the hands of the revolutionaries without a shot having been fired, the white [rebel] flag was flying everywhere, guards with white badges on their sleeves were patrolling the streets to keep order, and the excitement of the morning subsided as quickly as it had arisen.³²

The discrepancies are a salutary reminder of the dangers of eyewitness testimony, decades after the event.³³ Yet Mao's overblown description is hardly to be wondered at. As an excited teenager, he had been present at one of the defining moments of modern Chinese history. As a communist leader years later, his memories were of what the day should have been, rather than what it was.

The Governor and most of his senior aides escaped. But the militia commander, whom the soldiers blamed for confiscating their ammunition, was led off to the East Gate and beheaded. Several other officials were  executed near the yamen, their ‘gory heads and trunks’ left lying in the street.³⁴

Both in Wuchang, where the civilian revolutionary leaders were thrown into disarray by the raid on Sun Wu's bomb factory, and in Changsha, where their plans had been delayed by the Governor's countermeasures, the driving force behind the uprisings consisted of radical non-commissioned officers and rank-and-file troops. Once victory had been achieved, there was considerable confusion over who should head the new revolutionary order.

In Hubei, a brigade commander, Li Yuanhong, who had initially opposed the mutiny, agreed reluctantly to be sworn in as Military Governor.³⁵ The same day he issued a proclamation renaming the country the Republic of China, little guessing that less than six months later, he would become Vice-President in Beijing and, eventually, Head of State.

The situation in Changsha was more complicated. Within hours of the uprising, the flamboyant young leader of the Hunan branch of the Forward Together Society, Jiao Dafeng, was proclaimed Military Governor, with a leading member of the city's reformist elite, Tan Yankai, as his civil counterpart.³⁶ A dashing figure, who rode through the streets on horseback to wild acclamations from the populace, Jiao had close ties with Hunan's secret societies. Their leaders flocked to the provincial capital to help him consolidate his power (and to share the spoils of victory), turning the Governor's yamen, in the words of one contemporary source, into ‘a sort of bandits’ lair’.³⁷

This was not what Changsha's reformist gentry had anticipated. Four days after the uprising, Consul Giles reported that tensions within the ruling group had reached such a pitch that ‘revolvers were drawn and bayonets fixed’.³⁸ Then Jiao made the fatal error of sending his own loyal units to help the revolutionaries at Wuchang. On October 31, Jiao's deputy was ambushed outside the North Gate and decapitated, whereupon, in the consul's words, ‘the soldiers rushed into the city with his head and killed Jiao in his yamen’.³⁹ Jiao Dafeng was twenty-five years old. He had been Governor for just nine days.

Mao saw the two men's bodies lying in the street. Years later, he would remember their deaths as an object lesson in the perils of revolutionary enterprise. ‘They were not bad men,’ he said, ‘and [they] had some revolutionary intentions.’ They were killed, he added, because ‘they were poor and represented the interests of the oppressed. The landlords and merchants were dissatisfied with them.’⁴⁰ It was not quite that simple. Jiao's regime was too short-lived for anyone to have known what his policies might have been. But certainly the provincial elite saw him as a threat. His successor, the reformist Tan Yankai, who was sworn in as Governor later the same day, was one of their own, a Hanlin scholar from an eminent gentry family.

The situation in Changsha, and in the Yangtse Valley as a whole, remained extremely volatile. A pathetic edict, issued in the name of the six-year-old Emperor, declared:

The whole Empire is seething. The minds of the people are perturbed … All these things are my own fault. Hereby I announce to the world that I swear to reform … [In] Hubei and Hunan … the soldiers and people are innocent. If they return to their allegiance, I will excuse the past. Being a very small person standing at the head of my subjects, I see that my heritage is nearly falling to the ground. I regret my fault and repent greatly.⁴¹

Early in November, rumours swept Hong Kong that Beijing had fallen and the imperial family been taken prisoner, provoking ‘extraordinary scenes of enthusiasm’. It proved to be untrue, but residents in the capital reported that they were in ‘a state of siege’ and cannon were being mounted on the walls of the Forbidden City. Then came news, immediately denied, that the Emperor had fled to Manchuria.⁴² Yet at the same time there were signs that the Empire was fighting back. Only four provincial capitals were firmly in revolutionary hands.⁴³ Troops loyal to the Throne counter-attacked at Hankou using German-made incendiary shells, and most of the Chinese city was burned to the ground. Soon afterwards, imperial forces seized Nanjing. Any Chinese found without a queue was summarily executed. Students who, like Mao, had sheared them off earlier in the year, now hid in terror.⁴⁴

With the outcome apparently hanging in the balance, Mao revived his earlier plan to join the revolutionary forces. A student army had been organised but, considering that its role was unclear, he decided to enlist instead in a unit of regular troops.⁴⁵ Many others were doing the same. Recruitment in Hunan in the first weeks of the revolution exceeded 50,000.⁴⁶ Given the prevailing uncertainty and the violence being meted out to the losers, it was an act of no little courage. Many of the new recruits were being sent to Hankou, where the revolutionaries were under fierce attack from imperial army units. One foreign resident described the fighting there as ‘possibly the bloodiest … that has yet taken place. Day and night now for four days the battle has been raging … The slaughter on both sides is terrific.’⁴⁷ Even for those, like Mao, who remained in Changsha, life under martial law was brutal and often perilously short. Consul Giles reported: ‘Brawls are continually taking place, either among the soldiers themselves or between them and the civilians … One man alleged to be a Manchu spy was hacked to pieces in the street by the soldiery. His head was then cut off and borne to the Governor's yamen. Another man was triced up on to a sort of triangle … and riddled with bullets.’⁴⁸

There were attempts at mutiny, and on one occasion Mao's regiment was called out to prevent several thousand rebellious troops from entering the city.⁴⁹ A senior Chinese commander complained that the men were totally without discipline: ‘They regard destruction as meritorious action and disorder as correct conduct. Insolence is equated with equality and coercion with freedom.’⁵⁰ As anarchy loomed, the American Legation in Beijing ordered its citizens to leave Hunan until stability was restored.

The company to which Mao belonged was quartered at the Court of Justice, which had been set up in the former provincial assembly building. The new recruits spent much of their time doing chores for the officers and fetching water from the Sand Spring by the South Gate.⁵¹ Many were illiterate, ‘chair-bearers, ruffians and beggars’, whose idea of soldiering was to assume the poses of military figures in traditional Chinese opera, as one contemporary source witheringly put it.⁵² Mao made himself popular by writing letters for them. ‘I knew something about books,’ he said later, ‘and they respected my “great learning”’. For the first time in his life he came into contact with workers, two of whom, a miner and an ironsmith, he particularly liked.⁵³

But there were limits to his revolutionary zeal. ‘Being a student,’ he explained, ‘[I] could not condescend to carrying [water]’, as the other soldiers did. Instead, he paid pedlars to carry it for him, demonstrating precisely the same scholarly elitism that he would spend his later years condemning. ‘I felt that intellectuals were the only clean people in the world … I did not mind wearing the clothes of other intellectuals … but I would not wear clothes belonging to a worker or peasant, believing them to be dirty.’ Some of the men in his regiment vowed to take a reduced monthly food allowance of two silver dollars until the revolution triumphed,⁵⁴ but Mao took the full seven dollars. After paying for food and water-carrying, he spent whatever was left on newspapers, of which he became an avid reader, a habit that he retained all his life.

In early December, two events occurred which signalled the end of Manchu resistance. Imperial troops abandoned Nanjing, their last major southern stronghold. And Yuan Shikai, former Viceroy of Zhili and the leading military power-broker in north China, whom the Court had summoned to act as interim Premier, approved a ceasefire at Wuchang.

In Changsha, the news provoked another orgy of forcible queue-cutting, this time carried out by troops. The British consul, Bertram Giles, was outraged:

I protested strongly [to] … the authorities, [telling them] that one of the first duties of a government was to preserve the public peace, and that if they allowed the soldiery to commit assault wholesale with impunity, then they could no longer lay claim to the title of Government but were merely an anarchical faction.⁵⁵

Others, with a better sense of humour, saw the farcical side:

Farmers and peasants … came in from the countryside to the city gates, carrying their huge loads of rice or vegetables, or trundling their heavy wheelbarrows. The guards rushed out, seized every man's queue, and hacked it off with a sword or clipped it off with huge scissors. For many a man it was like parting with a limb to lose the queue which he had brushed and braided so painstakingly since early boyhood. We saw some of them on their knees, kowtowing to the guards as they pled for respite. Others actually fought the soldiers and many tried to run away … But before the week was out, all the city-dwellers and many of the villagers of central China were largely rid of this mark of Manchu control.⁵⁶

Ever wary of the winds of political change, many at first kept a false queue coiled under their turbans, ready to let down should the Manchus return. But that was not to be. On New Year's Day, 1912, the veteran revolutionary, Sun Yat-sen, was sworn in at Nanjing as China's first President. To mark the occasion, the authorities in Changsha held a military parade: ‘Bugles were blown, flags were waved, bands played and the soldiers sang lustily … Every shop displayed a coloured flag. Two border strips of red with a central strip of yellow.’⁵⁷ There was talk of sending an expeditionary force to Beijing to make Yuan Shikai and the northern military accept Sun's leadership, and mass meetings were held to oppose Yuan's nomination as Head of State. But, as Mao remembered it, ‘just as the Hunanese were preparing to move into action, Sun Yat-sen and Yuan Shikai came to an agreement, the scheduled war was called off.’⁵⁸ On February 12, the Emperor abdicated, and two days later Sun stepped down in Yuan's favour.

Mao remained in the army until the spring. Then the cost of maintaining the swollen ranks of the revolutionary forces imposed wholesale demobilisation.⁵⁹ ‘Thinking the revolution was over,’ Mao said later, ‘I … decided to return to my books. I had been a soldier for half a year.’⁶⁰