Chapter 240: Fierce Friends

On the eighth day of the eleventh month of the eleventh year of Chongzhen. Within Qingdu territory.

It was the bitter depths of winter, the cold wind cracking the skin. In a grove not far from the Tang River, several Night Scouts from Wang Dou’s army lay quietly in ambush. They all wore heavy coats and felt hats, dressed like common folk. Beside them stood several mules and horses, all with bits in their mouths.

At that moment they were warily scanning their surroundings. Past the Tang River, not far south lay Dingzhou City. To the north, several tens of li away was Qingdu City, and less than a hundred li further north was Baoding City. At such a distance, they naturally could not see Qingdu City or Baoding City.

Gazing as far as the eye could see, it seemed that between heaven and earth there was nothing but wheat fields and rivers, rivers and wheat fields, with a village almost every few li. This Qingdu was the later Wangdu County; the Taihang Mountains loomed distantly to the west, while within its borders the plain stretched flat as a whetstone, the soil rich and waters sweet, famed throughout Baoding Prefecture as the “land of ten thousand measures of pearl springs.”

But now, in the bleak depths of winter, everywhere seemed a single expanse of yellow and black. Riding horses off the official roads, the frozen-hard wheat fields were very easy to traverse. From time to time wisps of light smoke could be seen rising — that was certainly not cooking smoke, but the traces of Qing soldiers running rampant everywhere, burning villages.

A few days earlier, several Night Scouts had reconnoitered signs that large bodies of Tartar troops were leaving Qingdu and heading for Dingzhou. But that did not mean there were no Tartar troops left within Qingdu territory. Yesterday, when several of them passed the Yao Mother Shrine southeast of the city, they saw hundreds of Plain White Banner Tartar soldiers gathered there, and at once several dozen gave chase.

Fortunately, each man had three horses, and those Tartar scouts could not outrun them. They killed a turnaround shot, captured a Tartar foot soldier, and flayed him alive, only then slightly venting the hatred in their hearts after being bitterly pursued for several tens of li.

Seeing no movement around them, one Night Scout could not help saying to a man, “Chief Li, in this freezing cold, how about a puff?”

He pulled his pipe from his bosom, took out a fire striker, and very much wanted to take a satisfying draw.

“No. Prevent smoke and fire from revealing our traces.”

Chief Li sternly stopped him, then sighed: “Brother Yan in our squad was discovered and captured by Tartar scouts just like that. When we found his body… the state of it, truly wretched…”

His voice choked slightly. Everyone fell silent. Being a Night Scout was dangerous work. Since Wang Dou marched out this autumn, the army had already suffered around ten Night Scout casualties. What was more terrifying: if one fell into Tartar hands while scouting, it was truly a case of begging for life in vain, begging for death in vain.

Yan Gong, the Night Scout in their squad, had been a lively and cheerful young man, a fine singer of mountain songs, always the squad’s source of cheer. No one expected that a few days ago he had gone just like that.

This Chief Li was Night Scout Squad Leader Li Youde, a relatively steady middle-aged man. In the ninth year of Chongzhen, after he, Xie Yike, Wen Daxing, and others had rendered meritorious service scouting, he had caught Wang Dou’s discerning eye and been promoted from an ordinary Night Scout to Squad Leader.

Li Youde was currently toying with a massive grenade in his hand — the prototype of later generations’ hand grenades, though much larger, about the size of a man’s head, with a fuse for ignition. There was no helping it: a black-powder grenade had to be made large to have any power at all.

A grenade this large naturally could not be used in field battles; the chance of killing friendly troops was far greater than killing the enemy. Generally, Ming troops used them for defending cities.

Shunxiang Fort did not manufacture grenades; this grenade had been left to Li Youde by a friendly soldier. After Wang Dou’s main army joined forces with the Xuan-Da troops, in preparation for the next stage of war, the various battalions’ Night Scouts dispersed in all directions. Li Youde, under the orders of Mobile Corps Commander Wang Dou, had likewise personally taken the field, leading several small squads of Night Scouts out to reconnoiter.

Over these past few days, his cooperation with Brother Chen Ying of the Viceroy’s Personal Battalion had been quite pleasant. This Chen Ying was about the same age as Li Youde, both thirty-two or thirty-three. Unlike Li Youde, who was a native of Bao’an Prefecture, Chen Ying was a man of Liaodong.

He bore a blood-deep hatred for the Tartar soldiers. After making his way circuitously inside the Pass, he had joined Viceroy Lu’s command as a personal retainer and close guard. His martial skill filled Li Youde with unending admiration: needless to say his mounted archery, he could wield a great blade weighing several tens of jin with a whistling wind — a ferociously valiant man.

More importantly, the two shared much common ground. Li Youde was outwardly steady, but his inner world was rich. The greatest fear of a Night Scout was falling into enemy hands, so when trapped in a hopeless situation, given the slightest chance, all Night Scouts would choose to end their own lives at once. The methods of death varied, each with its own ingenious trick.

When he had nothing to do, Li Youde was always pondering: if he were trapped in a hopeless situation, which method of suicide should he choose? He had thought of many but was satisfied with none. In the words of later generations, they were not heroic enough, not romantic. Only when he saw the huge grenade carried in Chen Ying’s horse pack did his eyes light up.

In Chen Ying’s words: if he were trapped in a hopeless situation, he would light the grenade. Even if he died, he would drag a few Tartars down with him as burial companions.

Li Youde thought it was not bad either. Light the grenade, and together with himself and the surrounding enemies, all would turn into a rain of flesh. Amid the smoke and fire, flesh and blood flying everywhere — very desolate, very poetic. He at once asked Chen Ying for a grenade, and Chen Ying generously gave him one.

As he toyed with the grenade, he mused: this morning he and Chen Ying and the others had split up to scout. The time to regroup was at hand — why had Brother Chen and the others not yet returned?

Suddenly a Night Scout cried low, “Chief Li, movement to the east… Tartars…”

Instantly everyone leapt up.

…

Dust and smoke rolled. A dozen or so riders were galloping madly in pursuit across the wilderness. The whistle of arrows slicing through the air and the incomprehensible curses of the barbarians rang out unceasingly.

Chen Ying kept whipping his horse, urging it on, racing forward like wind and lightning. If he could just reach that grove ahead, where several brothers from Bao’an Prefecture were waiting, he would be safe. Ahead of him, his fellow scout Brother Yu Mao’er was silently spurring his horse at full gallop.

He turned his head to look back. The ten Tartar cavalrymen behind were still in relentless pursuit. They wore pure white cotton armor — they were scouts of the Tartar Plain White Banner. They shouted loudly as they rode, simultaneously drawing bows and nocking arrows, firing unceasingly.

Hearing the sound of an arrow tearing through the air behind him, Chen Ying knew a sharp shaft was aimed straight at his back. He pushed off hard with both feet and suddenly lunged onto another horse beside him.

With a hiss, another sharp arrow came flying. Chen Ying leapt back onto his original mount.

He vaulted back and forth between the two galloping horses, sometimes clinging to the side and hiding his body. His movements were extremely agile. The sharp arrows those Tartar soldiers loosed could never hit him.

In the blink of an eye they had galloped another li. The fine horse beneath him was already straining for breath. Fortunately, General Wang had given the Viceroy one hundred warhorses, so these household retainers out scouting could each have two horses. These horses were all sturdy and could endure long gallops. Looking over at the Tartars, their pursuit seemed to be weakening.

Suddenly the urgent beat of hooves rang out. Chen Ying turned his head to look — it was a Tartar armored cavalryman charging madly after him again. Seeing that this Tartar had opened a wide gap between himself and the other Tartars, Chen Ying silently cheered. He took his bow and nocked an arrow. On the back of the whistling, galloping horse, at the very moment all four hooves left the ground, he suddenly twisted back.

His torso seemed to turn completely around. “Thwip!” He loosed an arrow, striking the armored cavalryman square in the face.

With a miserable scream, the Tartar tumbled from his saddle.

Good, one down!

“Shoo!”

Chen Ying turned and loosed another arrow behind him. Another Tartar soldier was struck in the eye and flew backward off his horse.

“Thwip, thwip…”

Chen Ying had already reached the front of the grove. A volley of arrows shot out from within, and instantly four or five of the Qing soldiers who had chased close fell from their horses. A powerful crossbow bolt even pierced through the skull of a Qing foot soldier.

With a whistling cry, several Ming soldiers spurred their horses out of the grove. Seeing the situation turn against them, the remaining three Qing soldiers immediately wheeled their horses and fled back.

“Whish!” A lasso flew out like a ghost, accurately looping around a Qing soldier’s head. The noose tightened in an instant, and the Qing soldier was yanked backward off his horse. His mount neighed once and fled far away. The remaining two Qing soldiers did not look back, spurring their horses wildly in retreat.

Just as they did, after succeeding in their rescue, Li Youde and the others did not linger either. With whistling cries they galloped away in the opposite direction. This grove could not be stayed in for long.

That Qing soldier was thus dragged along furiously by the group. When they stopped in an unnamed grove, he was a bloody pulp, no longer human in shape, his helmet long since fallen off.

He struggled to look up. Before him were eight men, all dressed like ordinary Ming commoners. But judging by their horses and equipment, they had to be elite Night Scouts of the Ming army. Seeing the fierce light in their eyes as they stared at him, a chill rose in his heart. Just as he tried to struggle to his feet, he suddenly heard a loud shout. A Ming soldier’s fist smashed heavily into his abdomen. The Qing soldier’s eyes bulged, and he gasped wordlessly.

Then that Ming soldier strode over. His face was covered in bulging flesh, and his voice was as grating as fingernails scraping an iron plate. With a vicious grin, he said in Manchu, “Dog Tartar, spill everything you know, and your grandpa will give you a quick end!”

He grabbed the man’s money-rat-tail pigtail and hauled him up. This Qing soldier could be considered burly, his heavy body supported entirely by that single small braid — a vivid illustration of the phrase “hanging by a thread.” The Qing soldier, having been dragged behind a horse for who knows how many li, was already bleeding from the mouth and nose, his face covered in dust. Being yanked up like this on top of it, he felt as if his scalp was about to be torn off, and he shrieked in agony.