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[Published as MW Charney, “A Reassessment of Hyperbolic Military Statistics in Some
Early Modern Burmese Texts,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the
Orient, 46.2 (2003): pp. 193-214]
“A Reassessment of Hyperbolic Military Statistics in Some Early Modern Burmese
Texts”
Michael W. Charney1
(School of Oriental and African Studies, London)
ABSTRACT
Indigenous Burmese accounts of warfare have been treated lightly in the
secondary literature. Colonial historians pointed to the large numbers provided as
fanciful, exaggerated, and unreliable. Later scholars, both indigenous and western, have
followed suit. Chronicle accounts of Burmese warfare are judged solely by what
“objective” data they can provide. Much of this valuable material thus remains untouched
or unconsidered in the secondary literature. The argument of this article is that Burmese
chronicle accounts of indigenous warfare can also be read in alternative ways. As this
article attempts to demonstrate, lists of armies, their sizes, and their commanders, convey
significant subjective data on indigenous views of precolonial Burmese history, culture,
and society.
1This article was originally presented as a paper in a panel organized by Barbara Andaya (University of
Hawaii) for the Association for Asian Studies Annual Meeting, held in Washington, D.C., in April 2002.
The author would like to thank Victor Lieberman (University of Michigan), who was the discussant for the
Association for Asian Studies 2002 panel in which this paper was first presented and Atsuko Naono
(University of Michigan), for their critiques of earlier drafts of this paper. Romanization for Burmese
names and words used in this article follows John Okell’s “conventional transcription with accented tones”
(Okell 1971: 31-45, 66-67). Adjustments have been made to accommodate different pronunciations by the
Arakanese.
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INTRODUCTION
Early modern Burmese chronicles provide very rich descriptions of indigenous
warfare as well as long lists of the quantities of men, cavalry, and elephants used in
battles and campaigns. Historians of Burma have generally rejected such military
statistics, since they frequently border on the fantastic, attributing to Burmese kings
armies of almost one million men, sometimes more. Writing in the 1920s, G. E. Harvey
rejected as simple hyperbole the figures in the chronicles for the armies of later kings. He
suggested that the numbers of Burmese rank-and-file recorded by the chronicles were as
much as ten times greater than the actual numbers of men involved in Burmese
campaigns (Harvey 1967: 333-5). This view, however, represented more than a
“colonial” attitude towards indigenous historical traditions; the erudite Paul J. Bennett
also summarily dismissed one chronicle’s claim of Pagan-era (eleventh to thirteenth
centuries) armies numbering up to 7.6 million men (Bennett 1971: 33). Certainly, while
historians of Burma have long been aware that symbolic number schemes are at work in
anything from the measurement of temple walls to the number of queens in the court
(Heine-Geldern 1942), they have been reluctant to view military statistics in the same
way. The prevailing literature continues to accept or, more commonly, to reject early
modern military statistics found in the Burmese chronicles. Although there has been in
recent years a reconsideration of the prevailing interpretations of information found in
Burmese chronicles in general (Aung-Thwin 1998; Charney 2000; Charney 2002), no one
has challenged prevailing interpretations of what military statistics in the chronicles
actually represent.
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In this article, I will challenge the prevailing approach to the military statistics
provided in early modern Burmese texts. In doing so, I do not seek to demonstrate the
accuracy or inaccuracy of the statistics on warfare they offer. Instead, I will look at how
early modern Burmese literati wrote about warfare and attempt to explain why they used
they seemingly exaggerated the numbers they provide. My argument is that the military
statistics provided by the chronicles are not just numbers. Rather, these lists were a kind
of a literary device intended to convey important messages about the society and politics
of their own time. At a more general level, I hope to demonstrate that even though we
cannot depend upon the lists of warriors found in the chronicles as objective statistics for
early modern Burmese warfare, we can still draw out from them valuable, historically
relevant, information.
This article will examine the underlying reasons for the inclusion of numerical
lists in early modern Burmese accounts of indigenous warfare. I will first look at the
authors of these texts, the early modern Burmese literati, and their personal experience
with indigenous warfare. I will then turn to several different sixteenth century historical
events covered in the indigenous texts. Finally, I will discuss some of the drawbacks of
attempting to use contemporaneous European accounts to verify or challenge the
indigenous sources.
LITERATURE, LITERATI, AND BURMESE WARFARE
Burma’s historical records consist of a wide range of different kinds of materials
and made use of statistics in different ways and with different purposes. In terms of the
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use of numbers in the text, early modern Burma’s historical records can be split into two
main groups. First, some kinds of sources were specifically intended to be taken at face
value as hard and objective data on a range of items, such as local economy, township
boundaries, population levels, rates of taxation, and other matters, in which precise
numerical data was necessary for the functioning of the early modern Burmese state.
These kinds of materials include inscriptions, sit-tàn (local administrative report), ameín-
daw (royal order), thekkarit (record of commercial transactions), and sadan (treatise).
The second category includes ayeì-daw-bon (a kind of historical account usually focused
on the rise to power of one king or dynasty), maw-gùn (commemorative poem), eì-gyìn (a
genealogical poem), ya-zawin (chronicle), and thamaing (traditionally, a more focused
history, usually concerning a specific individual, place, or pagoda) (Hla Pe 1985: 36-44).
These kinds of texts were not necessarily intended to be read for the primary purpose of
obtaining data. The purpose of these kinds of texts was to provide more subtle
information in the context of an overall moral scheme. When statistical data was found, it
would be viewed within the overall context of the work, rather than “mined” from the
narrative. This article focuses upon works of the second category, whose primary
purpose, again, suggests a different agenda whose focus was not the provision of
statistics.
We can lay aside any assertion that early modern Burmese literati were unfamiliar
with actual warfare and thus wrote about warfare from an uninformed perspective.
Characterizations of the early modern secular Burmese literati as merely grander versions
of court scribes or as leisurely scholars do not adequately describe this highly diverse
group of learned men. While the specialized groups of Buddhist monks and court
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Brahmins may indeed have kept their distance from the battlefield, many early modern
Burmese literati had a thorough knowledge of the warfare of their time, largely gained
through personal experience. Our knowledge of early modern Burmese warfare is
generally derived from texts produced by these elite, literate men.
Early modern Burmese elites lived almost simultaneously in several worlds.
Certainly, they participated in peaceful literate elite culture. We know that Burmese
males at least in the royal capitals would be sent to monastic and other schools to learn
not simply to read and write and the major principles of Buddhism, but also to familiarize
themselves with secular as well as religious literature (Manrique 1946: 1.194). The social
expectation that elites should be literate is reflected in the ridicule that appears in some
early modern Burmese texts of nobles who showed disinterest in reading. As we are told
by one chronicle account: “Daka Rat Pi never looked at a book, took no heed of good
practice, but only sported . . . He was like a deaf and dumb person, never looking at a
book . . .” (SRDSR 1923: 58).
Another world was the military campaign. The sons of elite families were also
expected to participate in seemingly endless military campaigns as commanders and to
demonstrate their personal prowess and loyalty on the battlefield. From both indigenous
and European accounts we have strong and convincing evidence of the personal
participation of elite men in early modern battles (i.e. De Brito 1607: 237-241). It seems
fairly safe to assume that when those who survived returned home, they brought with
them a new or strengthened knowledge of warfare obtained “in the field” and shared their
experiences with other members of the court.
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Thus, many and perhaps most, of the early modern Burmese literati would not
have been ignorant of the actual nature of the warfare they described in their chronicles.
Banyà-dalá, for example, was a member of the literati who composed the Razadhirat
Ayeì-daw-bon in the sixteenth century. H. L. Shorto believed that Banyà-dalá was at
least one of the contributors to the Nidana Ramadhipati-katha, another sixteenth-century
text (Tin Ohn 1962: 86; Lieberman 1984: 297). Banyà-dalá was also an official in the
court of Bayín-naung (r. 1551-1581) and had served as a general under Bayín-naung in
the 1564 campaign against Ayudhya, as well as numerous smaller campaigns. Such men
would have had much personal knowledge of royal military campaigns, the actual
numbers of men who fought in battles, and the strategies or tactics applied in battle.
These personal life experiences informed court and other elite literature. This helps to
explain the intimate knowledge of warfare and things military by numerous court
ministers and writers throughout the early modern period, as we find, for example, in Zei-
yá-thin-hkaya’s 1783 Shwei-bon-ní-dàn and other texts.
Being personally aware of the limited numbers of men used in military
campaigns, such men would have known when a chronicle account was likely
exaggerated and when it was not. Their strategic use of statistics in chronicle accounts, as
I will discuss below, thus may reflect a different agenda from the simple provision of
accurate lists of the numbers of men in Burmese campaigns. I will now turn to a few
examples of how these men wrote about early modern Burmese military campaigns, and
the numerical data they provide.
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THE ARAKANESE CAMPAIGN AGAINST LOWER BURMA, 1598/99
The first example is the western Burmese campaign against Pegu in 1598/99.
During this campaign, Arakanese armies joined with Taung-ngu forces, surrounded Pegu,
the royal capital of the great First Taung-ngu Dynasty (1486-1599), and then brought
down the last ruler of that dynasty (for a detailed examination of this campaign, see
Charney 1994). Most Arakanese chronicles include verbatim the information provided in
a circa 1608 royal memorial on the campaign composed by Maha-zei-yá-theinka, who
had earlier held the title of Banyà-wuntha (Maha-zei-yá-theinka 1608, 25b). I have
already discussed this memorial in detail elsewhere (Charney 2002). Maha-zei-yá-theinka
was the go-ran-grì, one of the four chief royal ministers in the Arakanese court, as well
as the nephew of the previous go-ran-grì, Damá-thawka (RMAS 1775: 40b; Maha-zei-
yá-theinka 1608: 25b; Nga Mi 1840: 170b, 180b), when he composed this memorial.
Certainly Damá-thawka and probably Maha-zei-yá-theinka had personally participated in
this campaign and were thus first-hand observers (Maha-zei-yá-theinka 1608: 16b).
In his memorial, Maha-zei-yá-theinka includes a list enumerating the western
Burmese forces sent against Pegu in 1598/99. These forces comprised:
(A)100, 000 men under the command of the Ko-ran-grì Damá-thawka, including
20,000 Let-wè-thìn royal bodyguards under the command of Saw-nu, the eater
of Kaladan and Rei-baun-nain, eater of Mindon
20,000 Let-ya-thìn royal bodyguards under the command of Kamani, eater of
Ta-shwei and the eater of Myó-kyaung (name not given)
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10,000 Kaman Lei-kain warriors under the command of Ran-myó-baung, the
eater of Taung-kout
10,000 Tagaing spearmen under the command of Don-nyo, the eater of Than-
taung
10,000 Ka-swei-kaung shield warriors, under the command of Durin-thu, eater
of An
30,000 Sak warriors under the command of the Sak king, Kaung-hlá-pru
(B) 50,000 Bengali warriors and 300 boats under the command the Hsin-kei-krì,
Manuha
(C) 100,000 men under the command of the king, Mìn-ra-za-grì [consisting of]:
30,000 Let-wè-thìn royal bodyguards
30,000 Let-ya-thìn royal bodyguards
10,000 black shield warriors
10,000 Sak warriors
20,000 Hti-laung-ka cannon, musket, and round shield warriors
(D) 50,000 men under the ein-sheí-mìn, Mìn-kamaung, and Ukka-byan, the eater of
Sadan, including
30,000 Kanran and Balei warriors
20,000 Bengali Hti-laung-ka cannon, musket, and round shield
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warriors (Maha-zei-yá-theinka 1608: 16b).
This list is also provided in many later historical texts (Kawisara 1839: 58b-59a; Sandá-
mala-linkaya 1932: 2.145).
Taken as figures for the actual number of men involved in this campaign, this list
could easily be discounted as exaggeration on a grand scale. The numbers provided
amount to 300,000 men, all from a kingdom whose population at the time likely was
likely not more than 170,000 people (even in the mid-nineteenth century, western
Burma’s population only amounted to about 260,000 people (Charney 1999: 334-336).
The fact that this gross exaggeration was made by one so close to the campaign,
in terms of both time and participation, immediately tells us several things. First, these
large figures were contemporary or near-contemporary figures and were not the result of
later embellishment. Second, these figures were provided by one of the key participants
in the events covered and the nephew of one of the most important commanders in the
campaign, who had also held the same court ministership during this campaign. Third,
Maha-zei-yá-theinka composed his memorial in the royal court while the king who
sponsored this campaign, Mìn-ra-za-grì (r. 1593-1612), was still on the throne, so the
information had to have the king’s at least tacit approval.
The timing of the composition is especially important, because four major
developments had occurred between the end of the campaign in 1599 and the
composition of the 1608 memorial: Mìn-ra-za-grì, after several years of disastrous
warfare, lost control of Lower Burma to Philip de Brito after 1603 (Charney 1998b;
Charney 1999: 107-108; Bocarro 1876: 1.131-148). These wars had been costly to the
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Mrauk-U court in terms of men and arms. Next, in a 1607 naval battle with De Brito,
large numbers of important members of the Mrauk-U nobility and some of its chief vassal
rulers were lost (De Brito 1607: 237-241; Guerreiro 1930: 3.80). Mìn-ra-za-grì also
alienated important segments of the western Burmese sangha when he blamed the sangha
for his failures and put thirty elder monks to death (Guerreiro 1930: 2.319; Charney
1999: 111). Finally, a rebellion by the heir apparent, Mìn-kamaung, had almost unseated
Mìn-ra-za-grì as king (Maha-zei-yá-theinka 1608: 22a-b; Charney 1998b: 195-6). In
short, at the time the 1608 memorial was composed, Mìn-ra-za-grì’s kingdom was
unraveling and the elite families upon whom he depended for his security on the throne
were in disorder. We also know that by 1608, Mìn-ra-za-grì was taking steps to prevent
the increasing likelihood of his downfall and he did in the long run resurrect stability and
a return to the processes of political centralization and territorial aggrandizement that had
been underway before (Charney 1993; 1998b).
Considering all of this, I suggest that the listing of figures for the 1598/99
campaign tells us several things. First, it is a kind of social and political map, indicating
the relative importance of particular elite families, in the Mrauk-U court, thus reaffirming
a social order that had worked well for Mìn-ra-za-grì in the past but that was now in very
real danger of breaking down. Second, it treats Mìn-kamaung, the heir apparent, with
special care. Although Mìn-kamaung had rebelled, Mìn-ra-za-grì forgave him as he was
his only surviving son by a chief queen and otherwise most promising heir. But this
rebellion is included, almost out of place, in Maha-zei-yá-theinka’s memorial. Possibly,
Maha-zei-yá-theinka was making a point about Mìn-kamaung. If we look at the
enumerated data provided by Maha-zei-yá-theinka for the campaign, it is clear that the
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distribution of forces relegates Mìn-kamaung to a position equal to that of a lower-
ranking minister.
More importantly, Mìn-kamaung is placed in a position beneath that of Damá-
thawka, who is presented as being on par with that of the king. This could be for several
reasons. I think two are likely and another is possible. First, it reinforces the important
place in the court of a family, the family of the author, who had proved to be Mìn-ra-za-
grì’s chief prop among the nobility. As the eldest brother of Maha-zei-yá-theinka’s father,
Maha-Banyà-kyaw (Maha-zei-yá-theinka 1608: 25b; RMAS 1775: 40a-40b), Damá–
thawka was most likely the head of Maha-zei-yá-theinka’s clan. As both Maha-Banyà-
kyaw and Damá–thawka had died in the years since the campaign against Pegu, Maha-
zei-yá-theinka was heir to their glory, as well as to Damá–thawka’s status as the
kingdom’s go-ran-grì. Thus, when Maha-zei-yá-theinka promoted Damá–thawka in his
memorial, he was also, in a sense, promoting himself.
Second, it is a preemptive downgrading of Mìn-kamaung in the expectation of
Mìn-kamaung’s possible removal as heir-apparent. Third, given that there were no other
royal sons to claim the throne, Maha-zei-yá-theinka was reinforcing the prowess of his
own line and downgrading the person of Mìn-kamaung in order to make a possible bid
for the throne after Mìn-ra-za-grì died. The numbers, then, play a useful role in
measuring not the actual numbers of men involved, but rather in reinforcing the social
and political order of the court constructed by an individual who stood to benefit from its
realization, as did the king in whose court this text was composed.
THE CAMPAIGNS AGAINST AYUDHYA
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A similar use of military statistics can be found in the treatment of Tabin-shwei-
htì’s (r. 1531-1550) and Bayín-naung’s (r. 1551-1581) sixteenth-century campaigns
against Ayudhya in two central Burmese histories, the Hman-nàn maha-ya-zawin-daw-
gyì and Ù Kalà’s Maha-ya-zawin-gyì (great chronicle), both of which use the same
figures for these campaigns (the best study to date of Tabin-shwei-htì’s and Bayín-
naung’s reigns, as well as the First and Restored Taung-ngu Dynasties generally remains
Lieberman 1984). The Hman-nàn maha-ya-zawin-daw-gyì‘s sources are not difficult to
find. The compilers – learned ministers, Buddhist monks, and court Brahmins – met
together over the course of 1829-1831 on the orders of King Ba-gyì-daw (r. 1819-1837)
and produced what amounts to an upgrading of the old “Great Chronicle” of Ù Kalà
(circa 1730). In some places they introduced new material into the pre-1711 coverage of
Burmese history, but generally they incorporated nearly verbatim Ù Kalà’s text for this
period (Hla Pe 1985: 39). The inflated figures, then, can be drawn back to 1730. Trying
to move further back than 1730 is more difficult, though not impossible: the royal library,
and many of Ù Kalà’s sources, were lost to fire during the siege of Ava in the early
months of 1752 (Lieberman 1984: 294). Other materials have survived, however,
especially Mon histories that do shed considerable light on contemporary statistics for the
reigns of Tabin-shwei-htì and Bayín-naung.
According to the Hman-nàn maha-ya-zawin-daw-gyì and Ù Kalà, Tabin-shwei-htì
invaded Ayudhya in 1548 with 100,000 men:
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Marching in the middle: One army under the King of Prome, Thado- damá-ya-za,
one army under Thiri-zei-yá-kyaw-din, one army under Thamein Bra-tha-maik, one
army under Thamein Maw-kun, one army under Thamein Baran [consisting
altogether of] 100 elephants, 1000 cavalry, 50,000 Men.
Ascending on left: one army under Bayín-naung-kyaw-din-naw-ra-ta, one army
under Nan-dá-yaw-da, one army under Sawlu-ku-nein, one army under Thamein
Yei-thìn-gyan, one army under Thamein Than-kyei [consisting of]: 100 elephants,
1000 cavalry, 50,000 Men (HNY 1883: 2.284).
This gives Tabin-shwei-htì’s army exactly 200 elephants, 2000 cavalry, and 100,000
men.
Chronicles and other texts that predate Ù Kalà’s chronicle do exist. One of these is
the sixteenth-century Mon text, the Nidana Ramadhipati-katha, which was composed at
least in part by Banyà-dalá, one of Bayín-naung’s chief commanders (Lieberman 1984:
297). The date and location are important not so much because they verify the 100,000
figure, but rather because they demonstrate that these figures were not the result of post-
sixteenth century exaggeration. They were certainly current in the First Taung-ngu court
in the early 1580s. As the Nidana Ramadhipati-katha explains, in 1547, Tabin-shwei-htì
“took the field against Ayuthaya with more than 100, 000 Shans, Burmans, and Mons and
numerous elephants and cavalry” (RDK, n.d.: 47). The importance of this relatively
unexaggerated figure emerges when we compare it to accounts of Bayín-naung’s
campaign against Ayudhya in 1564.
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The importance of this relatively unexaggerated figure emerges when we compare it
to accounts of Bayín-naung’s campaign against Ayudhya in 1564. While Tabin-shwei-htì
had a meager 100,000 men for his campaign, the Hman-nàn maha-ya-zawin-daw-gyì
reports that Bayín-naung had over eight times as many (HNY 1883: 2.424-427): The
following is a translation of the Hman-nàn maha-ya-zawin-daw-gyì‘s list of forces taken
by Bayín-naung against Ayudhya in 1564.
(A) As for the men the king appointed to march against Chiengmai: Mogaung
saw-bwà, one army; Mohnyin saw-bwà one army, Möng Mit saw-bwà one
army, Ounbaung saw-bwà one army, Thibaw saw-bwà one army, Nyaung-
shwei saw-bwà one army, Möng Nai saw-bwà one army, Thiha-ba-dei one
army, Mìn-kyaw-din one army, the royal son-in-law, the bayin of Inwa,
Thado-mìn-zaw one army
These ten armies included altogether 300 war elephants, 6,000 cavalry, and
120,000 warriors placed by the king under the overall command of Thado-
mìn-zaw and ordered to march against Chiengmai by the Monei route.
(B) As for the armies that marched from the royal feet: Let-wè-yè-dain horse
army, Ya-za-da-man horse army, Duyin-ya-za horse army, Nan-dá-thein-si
horse army, Duyin-bala horse army
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In the elephant army: Nei-myò-kyaw-din one army, Thamein Yè-thìn-yan one
army; Nan-dá-thìn-gyan one army, Banyà-gyan-daw one army, Tha-yè-si-thu
one army, Banyà-dalá one army, Thi-rí-zei-yá-kyaw-din one army, Banyà-sek
one army, Si-thu-kyaw-din one army, the maha-uppa-ra-za (the prince) one
army.
With the five horse armies, amounting to fifteen armies altogether, there were
500 war elephants, 6,000 cavalry, and 120,000 warriors. They had to march
by the right-side route.
(C) Let-ya-yaw-da horse army, Bayá-ya-za horse army, Duyin-thein-di horse
army, Duyin-banyà horse army, Sik-duyin-gathu horse army. In the elephant
army: Nan-dá-kyaw-din one army, Thamein Than-kyei one army, Thin-khaya
one army, Thamein Yo-garat one army, Mìn-maha one army, E-mon-taya one
army, Nan-dá-kyaw-thu one army, Thamein Than-leik one army, Baya-kyaw-
din one army, the royal younger brother, the bayin of Prome, Thado-damá-ya-
za, one army.
With the five horse armies, amounting to fifteen armies altogether, there were
a total of 300 war elephants, 6,000 cavalry, and 120,000 warriors. They had to
march in the middle.
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(D) Let-ya-ye-dain horse army, Let-wè-baya horse army, Zei-yá-daman horse
army, Let-ya-duyin horse army, Duyin-yaw-da horse army. In the elephant
army: Zei-yá-kyaw-din one army, Thamein Zeit-pon one army, Bayá-kyaw-
thu one army, Thamein Ngo-kun one army, Ya-za-thìn-gyan one army,
Banyà-bat one army, Thek-shei-kyaw-din one army, Banyà-law one army,
Nan-dá-yaw-da one army, the royal younger brother, the bayin of Taung-ngu,
Mìn-kaung one army.
With the five horse armies, amounting to fifteen armies altogether, there were
a total of 300 war elephants, 6,000 cavalry, and 120,000 warriors. They had to
march to the left side.
(E) Duyin-thein-si horse army, Duyin-deiwa horse army, Deiwa-thuri horse
army, Thura-gama horse army, Kaza-thiri horse army. In the elephant army:
the son-in-law of the king of Ayudhya, Ei-ya-damá-ya-za one army, Zeiya-
thìn-gyan one army, Ei-ya-thuwana-lawka one army, Theik-daw-shei one
army, Ei-ya-thauk-kadei one army, Thiri-zei-yá-naw-ya-ta one army, Ei-ya-
beit-si one army, Satu-gamani one army, Mìn-yè-thìn-hkaya one army, the
royal nephew Thayawaddy-Mìn-yè-kyaw-din one army.
With the five horse armies, amounting to fifteen armies altogether, there were
a total of 300 war elephants, 60,000 cavalry [appears to be an error for 6,000],
and 120,000 warriors. They had to march against Chiengmai from Eindi-giri.
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(F) Deiwa-thara horse army, Zei-yá-duyin horse army, Deiwa-baya horse
army, Duyin-kyaw horse army, Deiwa-thiri horse army. In the elephant army:
Let-ya-yan-da-thu one army, Thamein Lagu-nein one army, Bayá-gamani one
army, Thamein Zaw-gayat one army, Nei-myò-thìn-hkaya one army, Mìn-yè-
lu-lin one army, Nan-dá-meit-kyaw-din one army, Thamein È-ba-yè one
army, Zei-yá-gamani one army.
With the five horse armies, amounting to fifteen armies altogether, there were
a total of 700 war elephants, 5,000 cavalry, and 150,000 warriors.
The men on the four sides of the royal entry point in the royal army, were
exclusively ordered to carry golden shields.
(G) In front of the king, Bayá-nan-dá-thu was appointed as sit-kè and Nan-dá-
kyaw-din as commander with 100 war elephants, 1,000 cavalry, and 10,000
soldiers. On the right side of the king, the king appointed Zei-yá-yan-da-meit
as sit-kè and Thek-shei-kyaw-din as commander with 100 war elephants,
1,000 cavalry, and 10,000 soldiers. On the left side of the king, the king
appointed Bayá-yan-da-meit as sit-kè and U-dein-kyaw-din as commander
with 100 war elephants, 1,000 cavalry, and 10,000 soldiers. In back of the
king, Nan-dá-thiha was appointed as sit-kè and Let-wè-zei-yá-thìn-gyan as
commander with 100 war elephants, 1,000 cavalry, and 10, 000 soldiers.
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(H) After the 1,000 Indians had been ordered to tie up their turbans [or sashes
around their waists], they were ordered to carry their muskets and follow in
front and back of the royal elephant, one both sides of the [elephant’s
armpits]. The 400 Portuguese were ordered to take the cannon [mortars] and
follow on all sides [of the king’s elephant].
(I) Banyà-bayan one army, Taya-pya one army, Tanaw one army, Bayá-thìn-
gyan one army, [one army is missing here in the text]. These five armies,
together with their complement, were appointed by the king to guard the royal
city of Hanthawaddy . . . In 1564, the king marched from
Hanthawaddy…(HNY 1883: 2.424-427)
Clearly there is a good deal of stylization in the account with an attempt at exact
symmetry, but the attention here is on the statistics themselves. These figures and
divisions are clearly derived, and repeated nearly verbatim, from Ù Kalà, although the
Hman-nàn maha-ya-zawin-daw-gyì adds a few additional commanders to the former’s
account (Kalà 1932: 2.349-351).
Bayín-naung’s forces numbered at least eight times those suggested for the size of
Tabin-shwei-htì’s armies less than twenty years earlier. As was the case with the figures
for the western Burmese campaign against Pegu, similarly exaggerated numbers can be
traced back to Bayín-naung’s reign. As the Nidana Ramadhipati-katha explains: in 1663,
“the King gave the word to march on Ayuthaya. His forces at this time, not including the
19
Chiengmai rebels, amounted to more than 900,000 men, with 500 tuskers and 4,000
horses . . .” (RDK n.d.: 105) The exaggeration then was not created by later writers.
Rather, these figures must have circulated among Burmese literati in Bayín-naung’s court
and were recorded by one of them, Banyà-dalá, in his contemporary text.
It is doubtful if such great differences between the figures provided for Tabin-
shwei-htì’s campaign against Ayudhya and that of Bayín-naung can be explained by
Bayín-naung’s admittedly greater command of manpower in sixteenth century Burma
alone. Even with a stronger degree of political centralization and allegiance than that
enjoyed by Tabin-shwei-htì, it does not seem likely that Bayín-naung could have
increased First Taung-ngu manpower reserves eight or nine-fold in less than two
decades. Furthermore, in terms of logistics alone, as Harvey points out, it would have
been impossible to muster and move an army even several times smaller than that
suggested for Bayín-naung’s force (Harvey 1967: 335). A better explanation for the
disparity in the texts between Tabin-shwei-htì’s and Bayín-naung’s armies is needed.
There are several alternative explanations. One explanation is that the author (s),
as an insider(s) in the court of Bayín-naung, would have had reason to embellish to some
degree Bayín-naung’s eminence. A better answer, however, is found by examining why
Tabin-shwei-htì would be undermined through the statistics for his armies by comparison
with those of Bayín-naung. Tabin-shwei-htì, unlike Bayín-naung, was not popular among
important groups in the First Taung-ngu court. Both Burman and Mon literati denigrated
him in their historical texts by their insertion into these texts of Tabin-shwei-htì’s many
failings. Ù Kalà establishes the basis for the eventual fall of Tabin-shwei-htì by stressing
that he had abandoned Burman cultural practices and committed himself fully to Mon
20
cultural practices, such as a Mon manners and dress (Kalà 1932: 2.215). Other references
are more explicit: the royal ministers were unhappy that Tabin-shwei-htì sent them away
on campaigns to keep them away so that improper things could be done with their wives
(Kalà 1932: 2.246). Ù Kalà also points attention to Tabin-shwei-htì’s relationship with a
certain Portuguese mercenary, with whom he drank alcohol, something unbefitting an
ideal Buddhist ruler (Kalà 1932: 2.246). The Buddhist monk Shin Sandá-linka also
inserted into his Maní-yadana-bon, his account of the fifteenth century sayings of Wun-
zin Mìn-yaza, a comment on Tabin-shwei-htì’s un-Buddist abuse of alcohol and his
mistreatment of his ministers (Sandá-linka 1896: 149). Given the claimed antiquity of the
sayings, this would have been a highly anachronistic reference, indicating that this
insertion was meant to make a point. As a result, Tabin-shwei-htì had alienated many of
his ministers, Mon and Burman alike, and to pre-empt a possible coup, Bayín-naung
attempted to ameliorate the situation by giving the corrupting mercenary a ship, with gold
and silver, apparently intended as a bribe, and dispatched him back to India (Kalà 1932: 2
247). This move came too late: Tabin-shwei-htì had already alienated too many of his
ministers and was murdered by some members of his court in 1551 (Kalà 1932: 2 250).
Bayín-naung, however, is portrayed as the man with the real kingly virtues. In
fact, Tabin-shwei-htì’s reign appears in the chronicles less as accounts of Tabin-shwei-
htì’s activities than as accounts of Bayín-naung’s exploits during the reign of Tabin-
shwei-htì. This suggests that the extreme difference between the figures provided for
Tabin-shwei-htì’s and Bayín-naung’s campaigns is partly due to his unfavorable image in
the eyes of Burmese and Mon literati in the late First Taung-ngu court and after.
Indigenous exaggeration regarding warfare worked from an understanding that a man of
21
hpòn (power derived from his good kharma or superior store of merit), a true king such
as Bayín-naung, would attract the loyalty of a large number of men. In other words, the
size of the army of such a king was a reflection of his superior hpòn and thus his
legitimacy as a ruler. A king of lesser hpòn, such as Tabin-shwei-htì (by comparison to
Bayín-naung), would command the loyalties of fewer men (For a background to these
expectations, see Lieberman 1984: 65-78, especially p. 75).
I have considered the possibility that early modern Burmese literati may have
reduced Tabin-shwei-htì’s forces in their accounts because he, unlike Bayín-naung, lost
his campaign against Ayudhya, thus requiring some excuse for his defeat. This is a
western perspective that does not fit well with early modern Burmese historiography.
While western accounts, such as those of the early seventeenth century Portuguese at
Syriam, dramatically underestimate their own forces and exaggerate those of the enemy
in order to demonstrate personal bravery or divine providence, Burmese literati appear to
have associated the attraction of men to the royal standard, as mentioned above, as
indicative of the king’s hpòn. Thus, if Burmese literati sought only to explain the defeat
of the campaign against Ayudhya, and nothing else, some other device would likely have
been used to explain defeat (perhaps treachery or the lack of firearms). By stressing the
low numbers available to Tabin-shwei-htì, they were also stressing his inferior hpòn, just
as his defeat per se was a reflection of the same. As Lieberman explains, ambitious
subordinates “could always justify rebellion through Buddhist notions that interpreted
military defeat as evidence of the High King’s moral failure” (Lieberman 1984: 36).
Again, as mentioned above, the low numbers attributed to Tabin-shwei-htì’s
armies during his campaign against Ayudhya served the same purpose in the narrative as
22
Ù Kalà’s references to unhappiness amongst his followers, and other signs of Tabin-
shwei-htì’s lesser prowess and diminished legitimacy. Burman and Mon literati refused to
embellish Tabin-shwei-htì’s image by attributing to him any more than one-eighth the
number of men they attributed to Bayín-naung. By commanding fewer manpower
reserves, indirectly demonstrating a lesser degree of prowess, Tabin-shwei-htì was in
effect reduced in stature by comparison to the more popular Bayín-naung. This
interpretation of the numbers would be in full keeping with Ù Kalà’s implied goals in
composing his text: to put Burmese history into a moral framework (see also the
discussion in Hla Pe 1985: 54).
THE LATE FIRST TAUNG-NGU EXCEPTION
One might reasonably question this interpretation of the “exaggeration” in the
chronicles to “rate” the prowess of kings by raising up the example of Nan-dá-bayin.
Like Bayín-naung, he too commanded massive armies and yet his failures as king far
surpassed those of Tabin-shwei-htì. He bled Lower Burma literally to death, alienated the
population and the monks, and suffered the ultimate disgrace, the loss of Pegu and his
own murder (Lieberman 1984: 41-43). One would expect that chroniclers would have
been attributed to him as well smaller armies than those of his glorious predecessor. Nan-
dá-bayin, however, presents a complex case. He was the chosen successor of his father
(Lieberman 1984: 36), unlike Bayín-naung for whom the chronicles make no claim of his
having been selected by Tabin-shwei-htì. Indeed, in the latter case, being selected by such
an ignominious king would have cast a shadow of doubt on Bayín-naung himself,
23
something Burmese chroniclers avoided. Thus, the chronicles are silent concerning any
grant to Bayín-naung by Tabin-shwei-htì: Bayín-naung had to prove his prowess and
right to rule on his own merits through conquest. Indeed, it took Bayín-naung two years
to suppress his chief rivals and secure the throne (Lieberman 1984: 36).
Instead, Nan-dá-bayin is treated in the chronicles as a rightful heir to a glorious
king, but one who eventually was negligent and became guilty of azaravapatti, a “failure
of duty” (Than Tun 1988: 118). By ignoring his responsibilities and as a result of poor
administration in the later years of his reign, he suffered from instant kharma: his people
fled to other kingdoms (HNY 1955: 3.99), his son and nominated heir was killed in battle
(HNY 1955: 3.98; Du Jarric 1919: 73), his kingdom fell apart as outlying vassal lords
rebelled (HNY 1955: 3.102), and his sister’s husband had him murdered (HNY 1955:
3.109). Clearly this portrayal reads something like the plot of a major tragedy in full
keeping with Ù Kalà’s stated goals in composing his text: Ù Kalà sought to show the
reasons for the rise and fall of kings in the context of moral and immoral rule.
Thus, Nan-dá-bayin’s armies in the early, good years, of his reign were quoted as
being very large, though not as large as those of Bayín-naung, but then dwindle as the
quality of his rule declined. This is indicated by an examination of the numbers of men
the chronicles claim Nan-dá-bayin could put into the field against his chief enemy
Ayudhya: in the 1586 campaign against Ayudhya, Nan-dá-bayin’s army consisted of
1,200 war elephants, 12,000 cavalry, and 352,000 men (Kalà 1961: 3.81); in a 1590
campaign, Nan-dá-bayin put together two armies, one consisting of 500 war elephants,
6,000 cavalry, and 100,000 warriors that marched against Mogaung and a second army of
1,000 war elephants, 12,000 cavalry, and 200,000 warriors that marched against Ayudhya
24
(Kalà 1961: 3.86-87; HNY 1955: 3.93), making a total of 1,500 war elephants, 18,000
cavalry, and 300,000 warriors; in the 1592 campaign against Ayudhya, for example, Nan-
dá-bayin could only muster an army of 1,500 war elephants, 20,000 cavalry, and 240,000
warriors (Kalà 1961: 3.90-91; HNY 1955: 3.97); and in the 1594 campaign against
Mawla-myine (Moulmein), on the route to Ayudhya, his army consisted of a mere 400
war elephants, 4,000 cavalry, and 80,000 warriors (Kalà 1961: 3.93). This analysis,
however, obviously does not include limited campaigns against smaller polities unrelated
to the First Taung-ngu-Ayudhya rivalry. In the 1591 campaign against Mogaung, for
example, he put together an army of 600 war elephants, 6,000 horse, and 80,000 men
(Kalà 1961: 3.88; HNY 1955: 3.95).
Burmese sources on the later years of Nan-dá-bayin’s reign are few, beyond that
of U Kalà, due in part to the damage to texts in the royal library in 1752, as mentioned
above. Thus, most later Burmese accounts are dependent upon Ù Kalà’s admittedly
strategic portrayal of events. We can still arrive at contemporary indigenous perspectives
through some of the European accounts. We do have European sources that provide
figures for the size of Nan-dá-bayin’s armies and these sources indicate a drop in the size
of those armies from the early to later years of his reign. The largest army first sent
against Ayudhya by Nan-dá-bayin, for example, was quoted by Du Jarric’s sources as
numbering 900,000 men; for 1595, as numbering only 150,000 men; and for 1596/7, he is
said to have commanded a population, not an army, of only 30,000 “ men, women, and
children” (Du Jarric 1919: 73, 76, 78). As I will explain in the following section,
European sources though used to confirm indigenous accounts, frequently repeat the
same (oral) sources upon which the Burmese texts are based and thus I suggest that such
25
European figures may reflect contemporary indigenous perspectives on Nan-dá-bayin’s
reign. This cannot yet be demonstrated with complete certainty, as, again, contemporary
indigenous sources for the reign of Nan-dá-bayin, unlike those for his father, are
extremely limited.
My contention is that we should not reject these numbers on the basis of their
exaggeration, but view them as one way that early modern Burmese literati chose to
reflect their impressions of very real developments during Nan-dá-bayin’s reign and
those of his predecessors in the First Taung-ngu Dynasty. I should stress that I am not
suggesting that the declining figures for Nan-dá-bayin’s military muster are solely a
literati creation. My argument is actually the reverse. The statistics themselves are not
based on precise accounting. Instead, they reflect real developments and real impressions
from contemporary sources and it is the relationship between the statistics provided in the
chronicles, such as when one king is said to have had a million men and another a
hundred thousand men, that must draw our attention. Indeed, there was a very real
decline in Nan-dá-bayin’s military manpower base (Lieberman 1985: 41), but the
statistics offered in the chronicles only intended to reflect this trend in declining sets of
exaggerated numbers, not to provide a precise accounting of the actual numbers of men
available at different points of time.
As I have mentioned, these contemporary literati were probably aware of the
difference between real numbers of troops involved and those they claimed and thus, the
degree of exaggeration or under exaggeration served as a kind of index for their favor or
disfavor of the reigning king. Later literati, writing on the basis of these accounts, carried
these numbers into their own compilations. In other words, Harvey’s negative assessment
26
of these figures as later and falsely enumerated data on royal armies is a misreading of
the origin and purpose of this kind of exaggeration. This is not completely Harvey’s fault.
He wrote his history in the context of the colonial period in which indigenous source
accounts tended to be treated with contempt by European historians. As a result,
however, Harvey misunderstood and rejected as fanciful what is in reality valuable
subjective data.
USING NUMERICAL DATA FROM THE CHRONICLES
Thus far, I have attempted to demonstrate that hyperbolic quantified data should
not be rejected out of hand as unreliable. Instead, I have argued that such data actually
yields valuable subjective data not despite being exaggerated, but because such data is
exaggerated (to different degrees). This does not mean, however, that we cannot use
some numbers provided in the indigenous texts as objective data. Instead, each set of
numerical data has to be approached on its own merits and interrogated in its own
context. Several problems must be taken into consideration first if such interrogation is to
be successful.
First, historians frequently establish the veracity of a stated figure in the
indigenous sources by comparing it to contemporary European accounts and similar or
dissimilar stated figures. This approach has some hazards, as it bifurcates into two
separate and mutually unintelligible groups those who were frequently in intimate
communication concerning the events, the people, and the quantities involved in the
events in which they all participated. A good example is that of Portuguese and Burmese
27
accounts, themselves or their main sources being first-hand accounts of the events they
describe. We know that in the 1630s western Burmese court at Mrauk-U, for example,
Portuguese freebooters as far away as Chittagong were intimately aware of private royal
information through Christian Japanese who served in the royal bodyguard and some of
whose indigenous wives were servants of the court queens and noble ladies (Manrique
1946: 1.173-4). Father Manrique, the Portuguese priest who lived in Mrauk-U in the
1630s conveyed an impressive awareness of sixteenth-century First Taung-ngu dynastic
history, which he gained by conversing with indigenous learned men and by learning to
read for himself western Burmese texts and Lower Burmese texts captured from Pegu in
1599 (Manrique 1946: 1.241-2).
The results of this kind of familiarity with indigenous interpretations of events
(and numbers) has made their verification using European sources problematic. Probably
the most significant problem, is that we occasionally find the same suspicious statistical
data sets moving around through indigenous and Portuguese sources, but being used to
demonstrate different things in different places, and at different times. The best example
is that of the three thousand cannon taken at Pegu in 1599. Both western Burmese and the
Portuguese sources agree on the number of cannon involved. According to the early
seventeenth century account of Du Jarric, who based his account entirely on letters sent
to Europe by Portuguese witnesses to this campaign, Pegu had exactly three thousand
cannon prior to its fall to western Burmese and Taung-ngu armies (Du Jarric 1919: 76).
According to Maha-zei-yá-theinka, however, who was almost certainly personally
involved in the 1598/99 campaign, western Burmese forces had captured the younger
brother of the Ayudhyan king Naresuan when he came through Pegu to take some of the
28
spoils from the fallen capital after the siege. He was held for ransom, and, in exchange,
Naresuan provided three thousand cannon (evidently on the spot) as well as a number of
bronze images (Maha-zei-yá-theinka 1608: 20b). At first sight, a comparison of the
Portuguese and western Burmese accounts may seem to confirm the reference to three
thousand cannon. A more thorough interrogation of the reference, however, reveals a
high probability that the figure was derived in both accounts from the same indigenous
source(s). It may also be important that there are no other references to anyone having
seen these cannon at any later time. The number itself becomes more suspicious when we
compare it to other enumerated data provided for the booty from the campaign in
indigenous sources: three hundred Pegu court women, three thousand cannon, three
thousand Thai families, and thirty thousand Mon families, all taken back to western
Burma (Maha-zei-yá-theinka 1608: 20b-21a).
Second, both the indigenous and the Portuguese accounts tended to exaggerate
their figures for different reasons, but ultimately lead to comparable hyperbole. As I have
explained above, indigenous exaggeration in the kinds of accounts discussed in this
article worked from an understanding that a man of prowess, a true king such as Bayín-
naung, would attract the loyalty of a large number of men. In other words, the size of the
army of such a king was a reflection of his superior hpòn and his legitimacy as king. A
lesser king, such as Tabin-shwei-htì (by comparison to Bayín-naung), would command
the loyalties of fewer men. Again, as discussed above, the low numbers attributed to his
armies during his campaign against Ayudhya served the same purpose in the narrative as
Ù Kalà’s references to unhappiness amongst his followers, and other signs of Tabin-
shwei-htì’s lesser hpòn and diminished legitimacy (Kalà 1932: 2.246-7, 250). Thus,
29
whether a campaign was won or lost, a great king such as Bayín-naung would have an
extremely large army.
Portuguese perspectives on such matters were very different. Earthly events being
a reflection of divine providence, success in warfare could be achieved by a small
number of men favored by God. The lesser the number of men in the face of an even
innumerable host, the greater the role that divine intervention played in bringing victory.
For this reason, Salvador Ribeyro, in his account of his stand with a few dozen
Portuguese against much larger western Burmese forces at Syriam (1601-1603), makes
only infrequent reference to the thousands of Mon warriors upon whom his victories
depended (BDCCRP 1936). In the Portuguese accounts of Philip de Brito, consistent
attempts are made to explain his immorality and that of his supporters prior to the fall of
his fortress at Syriam in 1613 (Faria y Sousa 1630: 3.191-194). On the other hand,
references to the high numbers of men attributed to indigenous armies were made in the
context of their earthly wealth, a frequent theme in Portuguese accounts of Burma. Large
Burmese armies, for the Portuguese, were not the result of moral virtue (indeed, many
Portuguese accounts argued a lack of moral virtue in Burma) and the favor of God, but
instead reflected their wealth and the resources of the kingdom, very attractive to booty-
minded freebooters. Portuguese witnesses, then, had a different reason for accepting high
figures for indigenous armies, numbers they likely did not have the ability (or motive) to
challenge any degree of certainty. Further, they had motive to embellish these numbers
even more than the Burmese accounts. The European sources upon whom Du Jarric
based his account, for example, state that Bayín-naung’s invasion army sent against
Ayudhya, numbered 1, 600, 000. This is significant, as it does not appear to be a
30
randomly selected number, but instead an exact doubling of the indigenous figures
circulated in Bayín-naung’s time (Du Jarric 1919: 70). This might possibly explain the
fact that the quantities of men in First Taung-ngu armies as exaggerated in the indigenous
sources, and all being contemporary exaggerations as I have discussed above, were
equally exaggerated by the European accounts. The European sources claim, for example,
that Nan-dá-bayin mustered an army of 900,000 men for his attack on Ayudhya (Du
Jarric 1919: 73).
In short, European (at least Portuguese) sources from the period are problematic
because they lend themselves to confirmation of indigenous data while having very little
reliable basis to do so. Portuguese and Burmese perspectives on warfare were very
different, but in their own way arrived at very similar results when it came to estimating
the numbers of men involved in early modern Burmese warfare. This is thus another
reason to look for other ways to interpret such numerical data.
CONCLUSION
Any analysis of early modern Burmese texts as reliable sources for data on
indigenous warfare must begin with an understanding of who composed these texts and
identify their purposes in including military statistics (and enumerated data generally) in
their narratives. I have taken into consideration the experiences of early modern Burmese
literati with warfare and examined their writings in this context. Using the examples of
the 1598/99 western Burmese campaign against Pegu, Tabin-shwei-htì’s campaign
against Ayudhya in 1548, Bayín-naung’s campaign against the same in 1565, and the
31
complicated case of Nan-dá-bayin, I have attempted to identify the ways in which these
statistics were meant to be understood.
My argument is that rather than attempting to provide consistent hard statistics of
the men involved in early modern Burmese military campaigns, early modern Burmese
literati, living at the same time and sometimes engaging in the campaigns described,
manipulated such “hard” numbers to convey subjective data on the political world around
them. In doing so, they would likely have been keenly aware of the inconsistency
between the manipulated figures, the “soft” figures, and the actual numbers, the “hard”
figures, of men fighting in the field. For several reasons, however, they chose to
exaggerate or understate a given number at certain places in their narrative. I also
attempted to identify some of this subjective data. Finally, I examined the problems
involved in using early European sources in attempting to confirm the statistics found in
the indigenous texts.
I do not suggest that previous studies that have used statistics from the chronicles
are necessarily less strong as a result of my argument. Indeed, in many cases, they will be
strengthened in additional, though perhaps unintended ways. While it is true that many of
the statistics offered in the Burmese chronicles are not based upon objective enumeration,
they do reflect contemporary subjective perspectives of the rulers the numbers are
contrived to support or to denigrate. These subjective perspectives were in turn a
reflection, in turn, of the objective power of the subject, his victories, his successes, and
so on. Thus, to take one example I have used in this article, Bayín-naung may not have
commanded eight times as many men (though he probably did have more) as Tabin-
shwei-htì, but we do know by other registers that he was a more successful ruler, his
32
court was more stable, and his victories in war more significant. These basic facts helped
to influence the perspectives of the moral strength (or weakness) of these two rulers.
Hence, Tabin-shwei-htì’s lesser number of troops and the greater number of Bayín-
naung’s were rendered in the sources as a reflection of their hpòn or moral strength
(subjective), which in turn indirectly reflected their victories, strengths, and the overall
stability of their realms (objective).
To sum up, the numbers of warriors, cavalry, and war elephants in the early
modern texts we use as primary sources should not be automatically rejected on the basis
of exaggeration. Rather, we need to grapple with such material in order to fully
understand what the early modern Burmese literati were trying to tell us, and tell others,
during their own time.
Dr. Michael W. Charney
Department of History
School of Oriental and African Studies
Thornhaugh Street
Russell Square
London WC1H 0XG
United Kingdom
Email: mc62@soas.ac.uk
33
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