A Fateful Message from the Governor

In the sweltering summer of 1869, a confidential order arrived at the office of Zhao Xin, the magistrate of Dezhou Prefecture in Shandong Province. The message came from none other than Ding Baozhen, the powerful governor of Shandong, and contained instructions that would test the magistrate’s political acumen to its limits. Governor Ding’s command was clear yet dangerous: Magistrate Zhao was to monitor the movements of a certain imperial eunuch named An Dehai, who was reportedly traveling through the province. Most significantly, the governor authorized Zhao to arrest the eunuch immediately if he committed any illegal acts, while simultaneously reporting the incident to higher authorities.

This was no ordinary surveillance assignment. An Dehai was no ordinary eunuch—he was a favorite of Empress Dowager Cixi, one of the most powerful women in Chinese history, who effectively ruled China behind the dragon throne during much of the late Qing dynasty. To interfere with her trusted servant was to risk imperial wrath of the most severe kind. Yet to ignore the governor’s explicit order was to invite immediate professional ruin. Magistrate Zhao found himself caught between the absolute power of the imperial court and the immediate authority of his provincial superior—a predicament that could easily cost him his position, his freedom, or even his life.

The Historical Context: Eunuchs and Empire

To understand the gravity of this situation, we must examine the unique role of eunuchs in the Chinese imperial system. For centuries, castrated men had served in Chinese palaces, initially as harem guards but gradually evolving into powerful administrative figures who often wielded influence far beyond their official stations. The Qing dynasty had attempted to limit eunuch power following the excesses of previous dynasties, particularly the Ming, when eunuchs had sometimes effectively controlled the government.

Yet by the mid-19th century, the rules had begun to relax. The Xianfeng Emperor’s death in 1861 had created a power vacuum that his consort, the then-25-year-old Cixi, filled through a brilliant political coup. Together with Prince Gong and other allies, she overthrew a group of regents led by Sushun, who had been appointed to govern until her son came of age. In this struggle, palace eunuchs including An Dehai had played crucial roles as messengers and intelligence gatherers, earning them the gratitude of the victorious empress dowager.

An Dehai’s particular rise began in this period. His loyalty to Cixi during the Xinyou Coup of 1861 had cemented his position as one of her most trusted servants. Unlike many eunuchs who remained within the palace walls, An increasingly involved himself in external affairs—a dangerous expansion of role that violated Qing traditions limiting eunuchs to interior palace matters.

The Journey South: A Test of Power

An Dehai’s journey southward from Beijing in 1869 represented an unprecedented assertion of eunuch authority. Qing law strictly prohibited eunuchs from leaving the capital without explicit permission, and certainly not on missions that could be interpreted as representing imperial authority. Yet here was An traveling in style along the Grand Canal with a considerable entourage, his boats flying flags bearing dragon and phoenix motifs—symbols reserved exclusively for the imperial household.

Magistrate Zhao, upon receiving Governor Ding’s order, had dispatched capable constables to monitor the northern border of his jurisdiction. When An’s two decorated “peace boats” arrived and docked at the western gate of Dezhou, the magistrate’s men were watching closely. They observed when Huang Shikui, one of An’s attendants, commissioned someone to purchase ducks—paying with their own money rather than demanding provisions from local authorities.

This seemingly minor detail would become central to the legal and political dilemma now facing Magistrate Zhao. In the Qing administrative system, official travelers carried “kanhe”—documents issued by the Ministry of War that certified their identity and authorized them to receive provisions from local stations. The fact that An’s party paid for their supplies suggested they lacked these crucial documents, potentially making their journey illegal.

The Deliberation: To Arrest or Not to Arrest

Gathered with his advisors—legal experts and family members who often served as informal counselors—Magistrate Zhao debated his course of action. The central question was whether An Dehai had actually committed any illegal acts that would justify arrest under the governor’s order.

Cai, the criminal law expert among Zhao’s advisors, argued vehemently against action. “We must not arrest him!” he exclaimed, shaking his head vigorously. “This eunuch An performed great services during the overthrow of Sushun. Even Prince Gong cannot control him! For you to arrest him would be like an egg striking a rock—certain to end in destruction!”

Others pointed to the absence of kanhe as evidence of wrongdoing. If An had proper authorization, they reasoned, he would have presented his documents and received provisions rather than paying out of pocket. The elaborate flags displaying imperial symbols might themselves constitute illegal presumption of imperial privileges.

Yet the cautious Cai countered that even these signs might be explained by secret orders from the empress dowager herself. “Who can say he doesn’t have secret instructions from the palace?” he argued. “And you certainly cannot ask him directly!”

The political calculations were complex. Arresting An might please Governor Ding but risk terrifying retaliation from Empress Dowager Cixi. Ignoring the governor’s order would avoid imperial wrath but guarantee immediate professional consequences from Ding, who controlled Zhao’s career prospects. As the saying went, “One need not fear the emperor, but must fear the immediate superior”—the official directly above held more immediate power over one’s fate.

A Bureaucratic Compromise: The “Jiadan” Solution

After extensive deliberation, Zhao’s nephew proposed a characteristically bureaucratic solution: using a “jiadan” or “attached memorandum.” In Qing official practice, subordinates visiting superiors would present red calling cards when introducing themselves and white memoranda when making reports. For sensitive matters unsuitable for formal documents, officials would write on separate sheets attached to these memoranda—the jiadan. These attached memos typically carried no official titles or names and were often kept separately from formal archives, thus providing plausible deniability.

This approach offered Magistrate Zhao exactly what he needed: a way to inform Governor Ding of An’s activities without creating permanent, actionable documentation. “I’ve been pondering this extensively,” Zhao finally declared, “and I’ve reasoned it through. If higher authorities decide to memorialize the throne, then any catastrophe that follows will be borne by those above me. But if they don’t memorialize, and leave my report in the files, I don’t know when it might be discovered and cause me trouble. The advantage of the jiadan is that it need not be preserved in the archives.”

The magistrate decided to employ this method, though he saw no need for immediate action. “This isn’t like bandits or horse thieves arriving,” he noted. “There’s no need for an overnight emergency report.” They would wait until An’s departure before sending the report—once the “ghost had left through the gate,” as Zhao’s nephew colorfully put it, Dezhou would be free of responsibility.

A Secret Visit to the Riverbank

Despite this decision, Magistrate Zhao remained uneasy. Curious about the notorious eunuch whose presence had created such a political dilemma, he proposed to his nephew and Advisor Cai that they change into ordinary clothes and secretly observe An’s boats moored at the western gate of the city.

Though Cai counseled against this unnecessary risk, the magistrate’s nephew—young and curious—enthusiastically supported the idea. Eventually, all three men dressed in simple gauze jackets and carried round fans that could conceal their faces as they made their way to the banks of the Grand Canal.

The scene that greeted them was extraordinary. Despite the darkness of the moonless night—it was the twentieth day of the seventh lunar month—hundreds of local residents had gathered along the riverbank to watch the spectacle. An’s boats blazed with light, their windows open to reveal a scene of entertainment and luxury rarely seen in provincial Dezhou.

Through the open windows, they could see that women outnumbered men in the cabins, and the sound of musical instruments carried across the water. “What’s this?” Magistrate Zhao whispered. “Has he brought along an opera troupe of women?” As a gust of wind carried the clear sounds of strings and pipes across the water, his curiosity grew.

The magistrate’s nephew pushed through the crowd for a better view and witnessed an astonishing scene: eight heavily made-up women in their twenties sat in a circle, playing various instruments—pipa lutes, huqin fiddles, bamboo flutes. Each instrumentalist had an assistant—the pipa player strummed with her right hand while another woman pressed the strings for her. This assistant might simultaneously play her own huqin while yet another woman assisted her. The intricate coordination produced beautiful music without apparent confusion, fascinating the assembled crowd.

But the nephew’s attention focused on the figure seated at the center of honor—a eunuch in his twenties with a fair complexion and somewhat feminine features, surrounded by other men, women, and children. This could only be An Dehai himself, who appeared more like an entertainer than a fearsome political operator.

Then the nephew overheard a conversation that would prove critically important: “Look there,” someone said, pointing at the boat. “They’ve hung up a dragon robe!”

“Right, I see it.”

“People from the boat say tomorrow is Master An’s birthday, and everyone will have to kowtow to the dragon robe…”

“What kind of custom is that?” another asked. “Why would people kowtow to a robe for a eunuch’s birthday?”

When questioned, the explanation was reportedly that An had said: “I cannot accept you all celebrating my birthday directly. But every person should…”

The sentence hung unfinished, but the implication was staggering. For anyone other than the emperor to possess—let alone receive homage toward—a dragon robe constituted the highest treason. The dragon motif was exclusively reserved for the sovereign, and any appropriation of imperial symbols by subordinates represented a direct challenge to the emperor’s unique status.

The Turning Point: From Political Dilemma to Clear Treason

What had been a political dilemma now became a legal certainty. Magistrate Zhao and his advisors understood immediately that they had witnessed evidence of capital crimes. The possession of a dragon robe by a eunuch, and particularly the intention to have people kowtow to it, constituted unambiguous lèse-majesté—a direct assault on the imperial dignity that could not be ignored or explained away.

This discovery transformed the situation entirely. Where previously the magistrate had feared overstepping by arresting a potentially authorized imperial agent, he now risked becoming complicit in treason if he failed to act. The jiadan memorandum would no longer suffice—direct action and explicit reporting became necessary.

The political calculus shifted as well. Where previously Governor Ding might have been acting on personal animus or political maneuvering, he now appeared to be correctly identifying genuine sedition. Where previously Empress Dowager Cixi might have punished those who interfered with her favorite, she would now likely face difficulty protecting someone who had so blatantly violated fundamental taboos of the imperial system.

The Cultural Context: Symbols and Power in Imperial China

To appreciate the gravity of An Dehai’s actions, we must understand the profound significance of imperial symbols in Qing China. The dragon motif was not merely decorative—it represented the emperor’s unique mandate to rule from heaven. The five-clawed dragon might be used by high-ranking nobles. The distinction was carefully enforced through sumptuary laws that prescribed who could use which symbols, materials, and colors.

Similarly, the kowtow—the act of prostration with forehead touching the ground—was not merely a gesture of respect but a ritual acknowledgment of hierarchical superiority. To perform the kowtow to anyone other than one’s parents, ancestors, or the emperor constituted a serious breach of propriety. To perform it to a dragon robe in the possession of a eunuch implied acknowledgment of that eunuch’s imperial status—an unimaginable transgression.

An Dehai’s apparent intention to have people kowtow to the dragon robe on his birthday suggests either astonishing arrogance or profound political miscalculation. It positioned him not merely as an overreaching official but as someone claiming imperial prerogatives—the definition of treason in imperial China.

The Aftermath: Execution and Implications

Though our narrative focuses on the events in Dezhou, the conclusion bears mentioning. Magistrate Zhao’s report—now necessarily more formal than originally planned—contributed to Governor Ding’s decision to arrest An Dehai shortly afterward in Tai’an. Despite urgent appeals from Empress Dowager Cixi, Prince Gong and the imperial clan intervened, emphasizing that Qing law clearly prescribed death for eunuchs who left the capital without permission. The empress dowager, possibly recognizing that An had gone too far even for her protection, acquiesced in his execution.

An Dehai was beheaded on September 12, 1869, near Jinan, Shandong’s provincial capital. His extensive property was confiscated, and many of his associates were punished. The execution sent shockwaves through the Qing establishment, demonstrating that even the most favored courtiers could fall if they violated fundamental norms.

Legacy and Historical Significance

The An Dehai affair represents more than just a dramatic historical episode—it illuminates several crucial aspects of late Qing politics and society.

First, it demonstrates the continuing tension between formal institutions and personal power in the Qing system. Despite clear laws limiting eunuch power, personal relationships with powerful figures like Cixi could create exceptions—until those exceptions became too blatant to ignore.

Second, the case reveals the complex interplay between central and provincial authority. Governor Ding’s ability to challenge even the empress dowager’s favorite reflected the growing power of regional officials in late Qing China—a trend that would eventually contribute to the dynasty’s downfall.

Third, the episode illustrates the importance of symbolic power in maintaining political authority. An Dehai’s fatal mistake was not corruption or abuse of power per se, but his violation of symbolic boundaries that defined the imperial system itself.

Finally, the case offers insight into the operation of Qing bureaucracy at its best—the careful deliberation, the search for compromise solutions, and the eventual adherence to fundamental principles when pressed. Magistrate Zhao and his advisors exemplify the sophisticated political reasoning that characterized Qing officialdom.

Today, the story of An Dehai continues to fascinate historians and general readers alike. It represents a timeless tale of ambition overreaching itself, of power corrupting absolutely, and of the enduring tension between personal loyalty and institutional integrity. In our own era of complex political relationships and questions about the limits of power, this nineteenth-century Chinese drama remains surprisingly relevant—a reminder that the challenges of governance, accountability, and the appropriate exercise of authority transcend time and culture.