The Rise and Fall of a Founding Statesman

In the early Ming Dynasty, few figures stood as tall as Li Shanchang, the esteemed Duke of Han. As one of Zhu Yuanzhang’s earliest and most trusted advisors, Li had played a pivotal role in establishing the Ming Empire. His administrative talents helped transform a rebel movement into a functioning government during the chaotic final years of the Yuan Dynasty. For decades, Li served as the emperor’s right-hand man, earning wealth, prestige, and the highest honors the new regime could bestow.

Yet in 1390, this pillar of the Ming establishment found himself accused of treason – a shocking charge against a man who had helped build the very state he was now alleged to be undermining. The specific allegations connected Li to the earlier conspiracy case of Hu Weiyong, the executed chancellor whose “plot” had already claimed thousands of lives. Despite his advanced age and obvious lack of motive, Li Shanchang was condemned to death along with his entire family, with only his son Li Qi spared due to his marriage to Zhu Yuanzhang’s eldest daughter.

A Daring Appeal to Reason

Shortly after Li’s execution, a mid-ranking official named Wang Guoyong submitted a remarkable memorial to the throne titled “On the Injustice Done to the Duke of Han.” Though bearing Wang’s name, the document was actually penned by the brilliant scholar Xie Jin, who would later rise to prominence during the Yongle reign. The memorial presented a devastatingly logical case for Li’s innocence:

“Li Shanchang was so old he could barely catch his breath – how could he possibly rebel? The purpose of rebellion is to become emperor, but at his advanced age, how many days could he have enjoyed the throne? The privileges he currently enjoyed were practically imperial in nature. Why would he risk everything to start anew when he already lived in luxury? This defies all reason.”

Xie went on to highlight Li’s decades of loyal service: “Since the beginning of your uprising, Li Shanchang has been inseparable from Your Majesty, sharing your aspirations and risking death to help you gain the empire. He served as chancellor while you ruled as emperor – each in their proper place. How could he possibly harbor treasonous intentions?”

The memorial concluded with a stark warning about the political consequences: “Executing Li Shanchang differs profoundly from executing others. As the foremost civil official, he was the idol of countless scholars. By destroying their idol, you have destroyed the hearts of all scholar-officials. In killing one Li Shanchang, you have slain the loyalty of the entire literati class.”

The Emperor’s Chilling Response

Zhu Yuanzhang’s reaction to this bold appeal defied expectations. Rather than erupting in rage, he calmly inquired about the author. When informed it was Xie Jin, the emperor simply ordered “a mild punishment” – nothing more than dismissal from office. This muted response revealed the uncomfortable truth: Zhu knew Li was innocent, but had needed the treason charge to justify eliminating a powerful figure who might threaten his dynasty.

The sparing of Li Qi, while officially attributed to his imperial marriage, likely reflected Zhu’s unspoken guilt. Even this most ruthless of emperors seemed to feel some compunction about extinguishing Li Shanchang’s lineage entirely. As Xie Jin perceptively observed: “Even the most wicked person retains some conscience, though it appears but rarely.”

The Widening Net of Persecution

Li’s case became part of Zhu Yuanzhang’s broader campaign to eliminate potential threats, real or imagined. The purge extended far beyond Li himself, ensnaring numerous other founding heroes through increasingly tenuous connections to earlier “conspiracies.”

Lu Zhongheng, the Marquis of Ji’an, had distinguished himself in campaigns against Chen Youliang and other rivals. Though implicated in both the Hu Weiyong and Lin Xian cases, he had previously been spared – likely because his military skills were still needed. The constant stress took its toll, leaving Lu depressed and irritable with his servants. Seizing their chance during the Li Shanchang investigation, his household staff accused him of involvement with Hu Weiyong’s alleged plot. Zhu’s response was chilling in its absurdity: “I always suspected him. Though he followed me from the beginning and became a marquis, he never looked happy – always wearing a bitter expression!” For the crime of appearing melancholy under constant threat of execution, Lu was put to death.

Similarly, Fei Ju, the Marquis of Pingliang, found himself condemned based on Zhu’s claim that he had disobeyed an order decades earlier during campaigns against Zhang Shicheng and had nursed a grudge ever since. When Fei protested that he couldn’t even remember the incident, Zhu insisted on his perfect recall of the ancient slight.

Perhaps most tragically, Zhao Yong, the Marquis of Nanxiong, returned victorious from a campaign with Prince Yan (the future Yongle Emperor) against the Mongols, only to be immediately arrested and executed as part of the Hu Weiyong “conspiracy.” His dying words captured the absurdity: “If I were truly Hu Weiyong’s accomplice, I must be the most patient sleeper – lying dormant for ten full years!”

The Psychology of a Paranoid Autocrat

Zhu Yuanzhang’s reign of terror reflected deeper insecurities rooted in his background. As a former peasant, monk, and rebel, he lacked the classical education and aristocratic bearing of traditional scholar-officials. This created an inferiority complex that manifested as extreme suspicion toward the educated elite.

The paranoia crystallized when he learned how scholars had allegedly mocked the rival warlord Zhang Shicheng through a name derived from Mencius that could be read as “Zhang, truly a petty man.” This revelation about the potential for veiled insults in classical texts triggered Zhu’s infamous literary inquisition (wenzi yu), where innocent phrases were construed as subversive based on imagined wordplay.

Between 1384-1396, over twenty major literary persecution cases occurred. Officials were executed for using characters that sounded like “monk” or “bald” (referencing Zhu’s monastic past) or “thief” (alluding to his rebel origins). Even classical quotations like “all under heaven are virtuous” (from the Analects) and “boundless longevity” (from the Book of Songs) were deemed suspicious when Zhu decided “virtuous” sounded like “bandit” and “boundless” implied lost territory.

The terror reached such heights that when a scholar named Deng Boyan fainted upon hearing the emperor praise his poem, and another prepared his will before what he assumed would be a fatal audience, only to be pleasantly surprised with an official appointment.

Systematic Control Through Fear

Beyond random terror, Zhu implemented systematic methods to control his officials:

1. Political Marriages: He arranged numerous marriages between his children and those of officials, creating kinship bonds that doubled as leverage.

2. Adopted Sons: Following tradition, he took over twenty “sons” including the famous Li Wenzhong and Mu Ying, binding talented outsiders to him through artificial familial ties.

3. Hostage Families: He required generals to leave their wives (and later parents) in the capital when campaigning, effectively holding them hostage to ensure loyalty. Defeat often meant these family members would be consigned to the notorious “Widows’ Camp.”

These measures, combined with the ever-present threat of execution, created an atmosphere where even the most powerful thought twice before challenging imperial authority. As Zhu himself explained: “In times of chaos we use military force; in times of peace we employ civil officials – but they must know their place.” The wholesale intimidation of the scholar class achieved precisely this effect, ensuring compliance through terror rather than genuine loyalty.

The Tragic Legacy

The Li Shanchang case epitomized the dark trajectory of Zhu Yuanzhang’s reign – from visionary unifier to paranoid tyrant. What began as reasonable consolidation of power after a chaotic rebellion degenerated into pathological violence that decimated the founding generation and crippled the bureaucracy’s ability to function independently.

Xie Jin’s memorial, while failing to save Li, marked the beginning of his own remarkable career and stood as a rare moment of moral clarity amidst the bloodshed. Its arguments about the importance of maintaining scholar-official morale would echo through later Ming history as successive emperors struggled to rebuild trust between throne and bureaucracy.

Ultimately, the tragedy of Li Shanchang reveals the corrosive effects of absolute power and the fragility of loyalty in an environment where even the most devoted service guarantees no security. As the Ming Dynasty progressed, the shadow of its founder’s brutality would linger, shaping both the institution’s strengths and its fatal weaknesses.