他们让皇帝重新登上王位——但只持续了12天。

"They Put the Emperor Back on the Throne — for 12 Days" is one episode of the Shenzhou Land (神州大地) series. Below is the full illustrated transcript of this episode. You can read it word by word, or open the video page to follow the images.

They put the emperor back on the throne. A deposed child-emperor — Puyi, the last ruler of China's Qing dynasty, then just eleven years old — was carried back onto the dragon throne by a group of grown men who still wore their Manchu queues. Not a play. This was Beijing, 1917. Twelve days later, the very same hands lifted him down again. The Republic of China was only five years old, and it staged this farce anyway. How does a republic make room for an emperor? The boy's name was Puyi. He was eleven.

The starring fool was a general who refused to cut his hair — his name was Zhang Xun. But don't mistake this for the madness of one man. These twelve days were a play acted by three men: one wanted to use another as a knife, one wanted a dead cause revived, and one thought he'd summoned a peacemaker. All three miscounted the bill.

Last time: Li Yuanhong, the president, signed one order and fired his premier, Duan Qirui — and half of China turned on Beijing. Li Yuanhong commanded not a single soldier. Cornered by eight provincial military governors, he made a staggeringly stupid decision: he summoned Zhang Xun from Xuzhou to "mediate." He thought he'd invited a peacemaker. He didn't know he'd invited his own gravedigger. And Duan Qirui? He was only too happy for someone to march into the capital and pull Li Yuanhong out by the roots. Who lit this fire? Let's wind the clock back to the beginning — where "summoning a god is easy, sending him away is not."

This act is a three-sided power game, and nobody put their real plan on the table. What did Li Yuanhong want? With no army of his own, he eyed Zhang Xun, who had troops, and hoped to use his knife to press Duan Qirui's head down. What was Duan Qirui blocking? Freshly dismissed by a presidential order, his strategist Xu Shuzheng quietly passed word to Zhang Xun: "Go to the capital — we support you." Half true, half false: what they supported was Zhang Xun driving Li out, not Zhang Xun restoring the monarchy. And Zhang Xun himself — what did he want? One thing his whole life: to prop the Qing back up. Three men, three ledgers, not one written with sincerity.

First, who was this Zhang Xun? Born in 1854 in Fengxin, Jiangxi, to a poor family — both parents dead early, he scratched out a living as a hired hand, then joined the army as a cook, a man who fed the troops at the stove. But this cook had a fierce streak: he enlisted in his thirties, charged forward in battle, endured marches better than anyone, and was pulled from the kitchen into the ranks, rising grade by grade from private to officer; later he entered Yuan Shikai's New Army and climbed to provincial commander. Ask yourself: a poor man's son — who gave him rank, hat, and glory? The Qing. So in Zhang Xun's heart, the Qing wasn't just one family's dynasty; it was his foster parent. That's why he clung to that queue: cut the queue, and you cut the very root of his life. By the 1911 Revolution he was already provincial commander and Jiangsu governor; after the Republic he became Yangtze inspection commissioner and Anhui military governor, commanding a unit called the "Dingwu Army." His loyalty was single-minded: when the Qing fell, he kept a spirit tablet of Puyi in his yamen and kowtowed daily; when Yuan Shikai declared himself emperor, Zhang was the first to pledge loyalty; when Yuan fell, Zhang still refused to respect the Republic. From general to stable-boy, every head behind the Dingwu Army dragged a queue — people called him the "Queue Marshal," and his men the "Queue Army."

But his "loyalty" sat crooked. To the Qing court he was loyal to the bone; yet to Yuan Shikai he had been among those urging him to take the throne. Once Yuan was truly dead, Zhang turned and cursed the Republic, dreaming of restoring the Qing. Plainly put: Zhang Xun was loyal not to any emperor, but to his own order of "queue behind the head." Whoever could bring that order back, to him he was loyal.

Why did Li Yuanhong invite this "Qing-loyal" warlord to mediate? Simply: he had no troops, and there weren't many commanders who could "mediate" — Zhang Xun had men and, on the surface, looked "honest." Li thought he could borrow Zhang Xun's knife to press Duan Qirui's head. But Duan's camp was calculating a different ledger: use Zhang Xun's knife to drive Li away, then find another way to deal with Zhang once Li was gone. One side summoned a god, the other dug a pit — Li Yuanhong, the pawn, saw neither. Did he count the cost beforehand? He counted only how to beat Duan Qirui; what he didn't count was that he'd lose the presidency itself.

What mediator was Zhang Xun? The moment Yuan Shikai died in 1916, he held four "Xuzhou Conferences," roping governors like Ni Sichong and Zhang Zuolin into a clique, naming himself "chief," forming a "Thirteen-Province Alliance" — the idea of restoration had already taken root. Before entering the capital, he and eight men — Kang Youwei, Zhang Zhenfang, Lei Zhenchun, Liang Dunyan — signed a "secret pact to restore Xuantong" on a sheet of yellow satin. Tell me: Li Yuanhong invited him to "mediate" — which deal, exactly, did he take? The answer is written on that yellow satin: not mediation, but restoration.

Zhang Xun also had an old grudge against Yuan Shikai. In 1911, fighting the revolutionaries at Nanjing, Zhang slaughtered captives and earned Yuan's merit — but Yuan turned around and handed his territory and troops to Feng Guozhang. From then Zhang hated Yuan, and Feng too. Once Yuan died, nothing held him back — he meant to raise himself to "restoration chief" atop the scattered sand. The first Xuzhou Conference, June 1916, gathered delegates from governors like Ni Sichong, Zhang Zuolin, Yan Xishan — on the floor they said nothing of "restoration," only "strengthen ties, uphold the center"; after adjourning, Zhang told people privately: "These men are usable; the great affair to come rests on them." See — a sheet of yellow satin isn't woven in a day; it's one banquet, one letter at a time, slowly tying these warlords to the same rope.

Under the name of "mediation," Zhang Xun marched five thousand Queue troops out of Xuzhou — that was June 7, 1917; on June 14 he entered Beijing, his only condition: dissolve parliament first. To press Duan Qirui, Li Yuanhong clenched his teeth and agreed — on June 12, parliament was dissolved. Remember this: to fight the premier, Li Yuanhong personally pulled out his own last nail — the Provisional Constitution he defended had its wedge yanked by his own hand. On the night of June 30, Zhang Xun slipped into the Forbidden City with Kang Youwei and the royalists for an "audience before the throne." The decision was one word: do it.

Three in the morning, the Hall of Heavenly Purity in the Forbidden City. July 1, 1917 — the eleven-year-old Puyi, pressed by Zhang Xun and Kang Youwei, was seated back on the dragon throne. One order: the sixth year of the Republic became "the ninth year of Xuantong." Listen closely — this wasn't make-believe. The Republic of China, overnight, became the Qing again. How is a schoolboy pushed back? And what did the men who pushed him really want?

Zhang Xun, in court dress with a red-tasseled peacock feather, led over three hundred civil and military officials into the palace and knelt to Puyi: "On behalf of the true will of the twenty-two provinces' gentry and people, we humbly request Your Majesty to reclaim the governing power." As arranged, Puyi issued the edict drafted by Kang Youwei —

How old was the boy then? Eleven. In his memoir Puyi later wrote: that midnight he was woken from bed by a eunuch, vaguely pulled into a dragon robe, with no idea what was happening; he only remembered the hall full of people kowtowing, and more pastries than usual. An emperor, treated like a cultural relic — he sat not on a throne, but on the image Zhang Xun wanted to show the Qing. At that same moment, the old loyalists in the city dug out their feathered hats and court robes from the bottom of chests, pulled them on, and went door to door to congratulate Zhang Xun; for a while the secondhand robe shops near Qianmen sold out overnight, and those who couldn't afford one simply rented a costume from the theater. Some wept with joy, saying "now things are right again." To these old men, the "restoration" was setting things straight; to the common people, it was a farce.

The edict out, promotions followed at once — Zhang Xun's power-play: bind men to his ship with offices. He named himself "Chief Political Minister" and concurrently Zhili governor and Beiyang minister, grabbing the highest power; Zhang Zhenfang took the finance ministry, Lei Zhenchun the army ministry, Liang Dunyan the foreign ministry; Kang Youwei was made vice-president of the Privy Council and tutor; even Xu Shichang was granted "Grand Tutor and Acting Chief" and Feng Guozhang and Lu Rongting given titles from afar. But Feng Guozhang tore up the commission on the spot — he refused. That torn paper was the first crack in Zhang Xun's "unanimous" façade.

The pen of that edict was in Kang Youwei's hand. Sixty now, the "Sage Kang" of the 1898 reform, he picked up the brush to write the restoration edict. During the restoration he did compose poems to declare his purpose, calling it setting things right, an answer to the world; but once restoration failed, he turned and slipped out of Beijing disguised as a farmer, not even gathering his literary talent. Writing the edict he was a pillar; fleeing he was a farmer — Kang Youwei's "loyalty" was far more flexible than Zhang Xun's.

That night, three things in Beijing snapped back to the Qing at once: the dragon flag, hung from the Forbidden City's roofs to the alleys; court robes, dug out from chests and pulled on by old loyalists; and the bow, replacing the Republican handshake and nod, as people bent to one another in the streets. But most of those dragon flags were hung by Zhang Xun's soldiers door to door at gunpoint — in people's hearts, who recognized this emperor? One household took the flag down once the soldiers left; the soldiers came back, saw it, and forced it up again. The flag hung on the wall, not in people's hearts.

Zhang Xun hadn't forgotten Li Yuanhong — he granted him "First-Class Duke" and sent him away. This time Li stood firm: he firmly declined, clutched the presidential seal, and dived into the Japanese legation in the Legation Quarter. Don't underestimate that dive — inside the legation, Li became the very banner of the anti-restoration cause: in the name of the Republican president, he telegraphed Vice-President Feng Guozhang to act in his place, and appointed Duan Qirui as premier to organize the "Punitive Army." Zhang Xun thought that by driving Li out he'd won; he didn't expect that Li's departure handed the legitimacy of "punishing the usurper" straight to Duan Qirui. In this round, who was truly checkmated?

Zhang Xun thought that once the dragon flag flew, the realm would be at peace. He was wrong. Beijing's people refused the flag; Changsha, Guangzhou, Shanghai held rallies to denounce him; one man cut off a finger and wrote in blood "Defend the Constitution, punish the traitor." A restoration farce lit the whole nation's fire at once. Zhang Xun thought he'd lit incense; he'd lit a string of firecrackers — and the fastest blast came from the South and from Machang.

The loudest voice was Sun Yat-sen, far away in Shanghai. He at once issued a "Declaration to Punish the Usurper," denouncing Zhang Xun's "perverse acts" and vowing "never to share the sky with him," then headed south to Guangzhou to set up a rival government and raise an army. Hold this account: was Sun's "anti-restoration" truly only to defend the Constitution? Or, with the North in chaos, was he seizing a pretext to build his own central government? We'll settle that account in Act Five.

The one who truly moved to put down the revolt was Duan Qirui. On July 3, at Machang near Tianjin, he took oath as commander-in-chief of the "Punitive Army." But Duan at first had neither men nor money — he borrowed a sum to buy off the Tianjin garrison commander Li Changtai's troops; pulled back Feng Yuxiang's Sixteenth Mixed Brigade, recently dismissed by Duan himself yet "only obeying its brigade commander"; and added Cao Kun's Third Division (with Wu Peifu in it). With these units gathered, the Punitive Army had capital at last. Zhang Xun "invited" the throne with a sheet of yellow satin; Duan Qirui "bought" the Punitive Army with three piles of silver — in the same Republic, one bound men with loyalty, the other with money; whose rope was tighter?

The moment Duan raised the "punish" banner, the governors who had signed the yellow satin ran faster than anyone. On July 4, Vice-President Feng Guozhong first telegraphed from Nanjing to punish the usurper; then Zhili, Jiangsu, Hubei, Jiangxi — telegram after telegram cursed Zhang Xun. Ridiculous, isn't it? Half a month earlier these men pressed their fingerprints on the satin to "support" him; half a month later, the same hand raised a gun to crusade. In the arena of power, there are no eternal allies, only eternal ledgers. Feng Guozhang now swapped the commission he'd torn for another — as vice-president he prepared to go north and act as acting president. The man who'd refused office now came to pick the fruit.

This punitive telegram was the work of Liang Qichao — This war holds an unavoidable line in China's military history. Qin Guoyong, head of the Nanyuan Aviation School, flew a French "Caudron" trainer from Nanyuan — that was July 7 — over the Forbidden City, and by hand dropped three bombs. This was the first practical aerial bombing by a Chinese aircraft; the imperial palace became a target. Three bombs: one landed outside Longzong Gate, wounding a sedan chair-bearer; one fell into the Imperial Garden pond, chipping the corner; one jammed in the eaves of Longfu Gate — a dud, but it scared the eunuchs mid-game half to death. The Forbidden City fell into chaos; imperial concubines dove under tables, Puyi was hustled back to the Hall of Mental Cultivation by eunuchs. The Times correspondent Morrison wrote: that day over Beijing "not a single bird could fly safely," because the soldiers fired almost all their shots skyward; a great host sprayed "millions of rounds" at Zhang Xun's residence yet not one touched the city wall, only accidentally wounding a passerby three kilometers away — before the battle was truly fought, it had already become farce.

The restoration left the international scene stunned too. Japan had been half-pushing, half-resisting Zhang Xun; the moment Duan raised the punitive banner, the Japanese legation switched its tune and threw its weight behind Duan — even sheltering Li Yuanhong in its legation, handing Duan a "still anchor." The powers calculated shrewdly: whoever could steady Beijing, them they'd recognize. Zhang Xun thought he'd summoned gods; he didn't realize the powers recognized the man with the guns.

The Punitive Army swept through, also because of a turn: the provincial governors who'd "supported restoration" on the yellow satin, the moment the wind shifted, telegraphed to punish Zhang Xun. Ni Sichong changed his face, Zhao Ti changed his face, Zhang Zuolin changed his face too — men who'd pressed fingerprints days before now stepped out one by one to curse Zhang Xun. Zhang Xun went from "chief of thirteen provinces" to public enemy in an instant. This sheet of yellow satin — yesterday's oath, today's everyone's retreat token; the signers ran faster than anyone.

Duan Qirui massed over fifty-seven thousand men and ringed Beijing — that was July 9; Zhang Xun's Queue Army, fit for battle, numbered only fifteen hundred. The outcome was known before the fight began — tell me, did Zhang Xun truly believe those governors would follow him, or had he bet wrong on his last chip? The answer may lie in his complaint after fleeing to the Dutch legation: "I was deceived by them."

The Punitive Army pressed in on two fronts, east (the Beijing-Tianjin line) and west (the Beijing-Hankou line). The western column shattered Zhang Xun's troops around Langfang; Zhang Xun himself held his old Nanchizi residence and resisted stubbornly, ignoring every call to surrender. The foreign legations, with Wang Shizhen mediating, urged him to yield — all refused. In the Nanchizi mansion, Zhang Xun's Queue soldiers blocked the windows and fired outward; the Punitive Army outside also fired at the sky — both sides' gunfire shook the heavens, yet few bullets truly sought a man. A "siege" became a ceremony of shooting at the sky.

After fleeing to the Dutch legation, Zhang Xun said something to visitors, often quoted since: "The restoration was publicly endorsed by the military governors' alliance; I was merely the executor." Do you believe it? The signatures on the yellow satin were real; the provincial governors had indeed nodded. Yet when the Punitive Army reached the city walls, these men ran faster than any. This line of Zhang Xun's was less a defense than a precise toss of the blame back onto that sheet of yellow satin. Zhang Xun kept his queue for life, combing it even inside the legation; people said of him, "the emperor is gone, but the queue remains." The star of the farce lived to the end inside the play he'd written for himself.

At dawn the Punitive Army launched its general assault — that was July 12. The Queue Army broke at first contact — some raised white flags, some cut their own queues while running, throwing down their rifles. Zhang Xun, convinced he'd been "used" by Duan Qirui, fled in panic into the Dutch legation with German help; Kang Youwei slipped out of Beijing disguised as a farmer. That day, Puyi issued the abdication edict again —

The busiest thing on Beijing's streets that day wasn't the army, but scissors — July 12. The Queue soldiers, running, cut their own queues — the marker that had trailed behind their heads days before was now a liability to flee with; on the street people picked up the cut queues by the handful, like pulling leeks. The queue Zhang Xun had guarded his whole life was, in the end, thrown away first by his own soldiers.

Duan Qirui returned to Beijing and retook power, hailed by court and public as the "savior of the Republic" — that was July 14. Li Yuanhong telegraphed his resignation and withdrew from politics; Feng Guozhang went north as acting president in his vice-president capacity. And Zhang Xun? The Beiyang government issued a warrant, but because he held the evidence that the governors' alliance had consented to restoration, he was never truly arrested. In 1918 Xu Shichang pardoned him; he lived in Tianjin, died in 1923 at sixty-nine, and Puyi even gave him the posthumous name "Zhongwu" (Loyal and Martial). The farce's bill was paid by the Republic's last shred of legal order; Duan Qirui pocketed the gain, Li Yuanhong took the fall, and the one who actually went to prison — was none at all.

Duan Qirui won the restoration, yet faced a legitimacy puzzle. After "saving the Republic," he refused to restore the Provisional Constitution and the old parliament — his reason: the old parliament had been "usurped by rebels" and couldn't be reassembled once dissolved, so he built a new parliament to rebuild the legal order. Ask yourself: he'd driven out an emperor, yet had to restart from scratch on "which constitution the Republic should use" — a question with no standard answer. Once restoration was put down, he pushed through the long-shelved declaration of war on Germany and Austria (August 14, 1917), and China formally stepped into the Allied camp; the nation played this move steadily, leaving the constitutional step to a longer history to answer.

Once Zhang Xun fell, Sun Yat-sen at once raised the banner of "anti-restoration, defend the Provisional Constitution," went south to Guangzhou, and in September 1917 formed the "Constitution-Protection Military Government," naming himself grand marshal. Rewind four years — in 1913 he raised the "punish Yuan" banner and took up arms; seven columns of troops, not one held two months, each collapsing at a push, instead handing Yuan Shikai the moral high ground of "putting down rebellion." Now the banner read "defend the constitution," but the playbook was the same: build a rival center, raise an army, name himself supreme commander. Was this "anti-restoration" truly to defend the constitution? Or, with the North in chaos, to seize a pretext for his own central government — the account buried in Act One should now be clear. Once he went south, China split north and south from that day; and "alliance with Russia and the Communists" still lay ahead — that step truly sealed off the road of constitutional government.

How "personal" was Sun's move? The Constitution-Protection Military Government formed that September in Guangzhou, with him as grand marshal; yet the two elected deputy marshals — Tang Jiyao and Lu Rongting — never took office. The southwestern warlords wanted to "protect" their own turf, not Sun's constitution. The North's Duan Qirui drove out the emperor but lost the constitution; the South's Sun Yat-sen raised the constitution but couldn't protect his own government. North and south, one "Republic," one "constitution" on the surface — underneath, both ruled by the gun. That is the truest undercoat of the Republic.

One more word here: during those twelve days of restoration, newspapers still cursed, crowds still marched, one man still cut his finger and wrote in blood — a ridiculous emperor-dream couldn't shut the people's mouths. Say this as contrast, not praise: that social air was something the later Nationalist tutelage period could no longer show. (Contrast: the surveillance and censorship of the tutelage period took even this capital away.)

The restoration farce ended, but the Republic's fire wasn't out. Duan Qirui held power yet refused to restore the constitution; Sun Yat-sen went south and built a rival center. The gun drove out one emperor, yet couldn't stand up a constitution — what these twelve days of absurdity revealed was the Republic's most hollow layer. The fire still burns. Next act, where will it spread?

▶ Watch this episode (images and maps included): They Put the Emperor Back on the Throne — for 12 Days