The Last Stand of the Southern Ming

By the early 1650s, the Southern Ming resistance against the Qing dynasty hung by a thread. Two military leaders emerged as the last great hopes for restoration: Li Dingguo, the former rebel turned Ming loyalist, and Zheng Chenggong (Koxinga), the maritime warlord whose power base lay along China’s southeastern coast. Both men commanded formidable forces and had achieved remarkable victories against the Qing. Historical narratives often portray them as united in their devotion to the Ming cause, bound by mutual respect and even familial ties through marriage alliances. Yet beneath this veneer of solidarity lay a stark divergence in priorities—one that would ultimately doom their collaboration and extinguish the Ming’s fading hopes.

Li Dingguo’s Grand Strategy

Li Dingguo, a former general of the rebel Zhang Xianzhong, had reinvented himself as a Ming loyalist after the Qing conquest. By 1653, he envisioned a bold plan to strike at Guangdong province, a critical region that could serve as a springboard for reclaiming southern China. His strategy relied on a coordinated pincer movement: while his forces advanced from the west, Zheng Chenggong’s navy would attack from the east, trapping the Qing defenders between them. Success would open a path to rally Ming loyalists nationwide.

Li’s letters to Zheng reveal his urgency. In one dispatch, he wrote: “The fate of Guangdong determines the fate of Fujian, Zhejiang, and beyond—a single victory here will rally the empire.” Yet despite his meticulous planning and repeated pleas, Zheng Chenggong hesitated.

Zheng Chenggong’s Calculated Ambiguity

Zheng Chenggong’s reluctance was not born of ignorance. A shrewd strategist, he recognized the military logic of Li’s plan. However, his loyalty to the Ming was conditional. Zheng’s primary allegiance was to his own autonomy. As he famously declared: “If the Qing trust me, I am a Qing subject; if not, I remain a Ming loyalist.” His vision was not Ming restoration but a semi-independent fiefdom akin to Korea’s relationship with China.

When Li Dingguo’s envoys arrived in 1654, Zheng was engaged in negotiations with the Qing—talks that promised him legitimacy without submission. He delayed responding for months, then dispatched a token force under lackluster commanders. The expedition, plagued by inexplicable delays, arrived too late to aid Li’s critical battle at Xinhui.

The Collapse at Xinhui

In December 1654, Li Dingguo’s forces, exhausted and outmaneuvered, suffered a crushing defeat at Xinhui. The absence of Zheng’s navy allowed the Qing to concentrate their forces. By the time Zheng’s fleet meandered into the region weeks later, the opportunity had vanished. Li’s army retreated westward, and with it, the Ming’s last credible chance to reverse the tide.

Zheng’s subsequent actions—publicly reprimanding his admirals while privately excusing them—exposed his true priorities. His theatrical punishments for the delayed fleet were light, targeting secondary figures like Zhou Rui, a non-aligned commander, while shielding his loyalists.

Legacy of a Fractured Resistance

The failed Guangdong campaign marked a turning point. Li Dingguo, ever the idealist, continued fighting until his death in 1662, a tragic figure whose loyalty outlived his cause. Zheng Chenggong, meanwhile, turned his attention to expelling the Dutch from Taiwan, securing a base for his independent regime.

Historians debate whether their alliance could have succeeded. Li’s plan was sound, but Zheng’s ambivalence reflected a broader Ming weakness: the inability to unify competing interests. The episode underscores a painful truth—the Ming fell not just to Qing might, but to the fractures within its own defenders.

Echoes in Modern Memory

Today, Li Dingguo is celebrated in China as a paragon of loyalty, while Zheng Chenggong is remembered as a national hero for reclaiming Taiwan. Yet their story remains a cautionary tale about the cost of divided leadership. In an era where unity was paramount, their misaligned priorities sealed the Ming’s fate—a lesson that resonates far beyond the 17th century.