Chapter 146: The Siege of Chikan

These thirty-odd beauties had all been brought in from places like Chaozhou Prefecture and Nan'ao Island.

Most were women recently redeemed from the pleasure quarters, though some were poor girls from respectable families.

Without exception, all had lovely features and graceful figures.

Most importantly, every one of them had some talent — playing instruments, singing, chess, calligraphy, painting — each skilled in something different.

At this moment, the beauties were dressed in splendid attire, adorned with hairpins and jewels, parading in line to display their songs, dances, and talents.

The gazes of all the brothers were drawn away by the women in the courtyard.

Lin Qian said quietly to Bailangzai: "Over the next few months, have people keep a close watch on the Hu mansion, especially any rumors concerning the Eastern Barbarian Island."

Bailangzai nodded: "Understood."

Chen Jiao looked at the women in the courtyard, somewhat hesitant: "Helmsman, will this trick work? Those native women of the Eastern Barbarian Island are each like female warriors — I'm afraid they won't take to this flock of twittering songbirds."

"Don't worry. Once living conditions improve, never mind women being influenced — even men's aesthetics turn soft and delicate." Lin Qian peeled a shrimp and popped it into his mouth.

Scholar Zhou raised his cup and drank, letting out a "Ha!" before saying: "The helmsman speaks sense. Setting aside the distant Wei and Jin dynasties, the late Tang and the Song dynasty both showed this trend. There's a poem to prove it: 'The azure boy's beauty outshines crimson skirts, from pearl-strung throat pours exotic fragrance.'"

Lin Qian instructed: "Elder Brother sets sail tomorrow. For this trip to the Eastern Barbarian Island, all supplies and equipment have been prepared, and the Long Wind is ready — tomorrow Elder Brother takes this ship back to the island.

Treat these women well on ordinary days. When native chieftains come to the camp, bring them out to perform songs and dances. If no one comes, don't restrict their movements either."

Chen Jiao nodded: "I understand."

Lin Qian raised his cup: "In a few days it will be the Lantern Festival. I had wanted to keep Elder Brother on the island for the holiday, but the tide waits for no one. I offer this cup of clear tea instead, wishing Elder Brother fair winds on the journey."

All the brothers raised their cups together.

Early the next morning, at Qianjiang Bay dock, Chen Jiao boarded the Long Wind and waved farewell to Lin Qian and the others.

On deck, the thirty-odd women in full dress wore anxious expressions; some already had tears streaming down their faces.

The Long Wind, riding the northeast crosswind, sailed the Eastern Barbarian Strait for a full day and night, arriving at Tayouan Islet at dawn the next day.

Chen Jiao ordered the cargo unloaded from the Long Wind and transferred to small boats for transport to Fort Zeelandia, with the thirty beauties sent along as well.

But to his surprise, when the Tayouan Islet folk heard his arrangements, their faces all turned strange.

Chen Jiao immediately asked: "What has happened?"

The crowd was silent for a moment, then a clerk said: "Fort Zeelandia has been surrounded——"

"What?" Chen Jiao's brows knit tight. "Who surrounded it, and for how long?"

His subordinates all talked at once without making things clear. Chen Jiao waved his hand broadly: "Quiet! All of you, come aboard the Long Wind with me — I'll see for myself."

With that, Chen Jiao headed for the gangway. A subordinate pointed at the thirty beauties and asked: "Governor-General, what about these women?"

"Leave them on Tayouan Islet for now, and keep a close watch! Anyone who dares lay a finger on them can expect the whip!"

The Long Wind weighed anchor and unfurled its sails, heading east.

An hour later, Fort Zeelandia came into view in the distance. It stood built beside the inner sea and the Freshwater Creek, eight li in circuit, with palisade walls on three sides; the fourth side faced the inner sea, where a dock had been constructed.

For several li around Fort Zeelandia stretched reclaimed farmland.

This was the greening period for winter wheat and the planting season for sugarcane — the busiest time for farming — yet not a single person was in the fields.

In the sugarcane fields, the rich brown soil had already been plowed into ridges, and now lay abandoned.

Beyond the farmland stretched endless stands of silvergrass, and further still, dense forest — towering banyans and camphor trees with their thick foliage and aerial roots blocked the view.

As the Long Wind gradually drew closer,

Chen Jiao saw that the guards on Fort Zeelandia's palisade walls were clearly more numerous than usual, pacing about and constantly scanning the surrounding wilderness and forest.

On the streets of Fort Zeelandia, the number of people moving about had visibly decreased, replaced by militiamen holding crude long spears — an atmosphere of oppression and killing intent.

Chen Jiao strained his eyes to the distance but saw no enemy besieging the fort.

"Zhang Ganchao, where are the enemies?" Chen Jiao asked.

"Right in the woods. These natives may have crude weapons, but they're extremely fierce — just like those Tartars! My second brother was cut by them and nearly lost an arm!"

The one answering was Zhang Ganchao, a refugee from Liaodong. After he and his two brothers were rescued by Bai Qing, they followed Lin Qian's fleet to Nan'ao, then drifted on to the Eastern Barbarian Island, where they became Chen Jiao's men.

Speaking of the natives besieging the fort, Zhang Ganchao gnashed his teeth in fury.

Chen Jiao looked toward the forest. From this distance, he truly couldn't see a single figure — but what was unusual was that even deer were rarely visible, which meant there must be an ambush hidden in the woods.

Chen Jiao ordered the crew: "Hug the coastline and circle around Fort Zeelandia and the forest."

Then he said to Zhang Ganchao: "Have our people taken casualties?"

"Five dead, over twenty wounded. Most were attacked in the woods while hunting deer, and some were farmers——now no one dares leave the gates."

Zhang Ganchao said with hatred in his voice.

"Governor-General, just blast the forest with the cannons! These natives fear firearms the most. Flatten the woods and they'll have nowhere to hide."

The grasslands and woodlands around Fort Zeelandia spanned tens of thousands of acres — never mind cannon fire, even setting them ablaze wouldn't burn them clean.

Chen Jiao knew Zhang Ganchao was speaking in anger. He said in a calming tone: "Don't be hasty. Tell me from the beginning exactly what happened."

"Truth be told, we don't know what happened either. About three days ago, a dozen or so people fled out of the forest, every one of them wounded — that's how we learned the natives had surrounded the fort.

The natives don't attack the fort; they just hold the perimeter. If farmers go out to tend the fields, they get pelted with stones. If they don't leave, the natives throw spears.

Governor-General, look at that."

As he spoke, Zhang Ganchao pointed at the farmland on shore.

A flock of crows had gathered on the field, pecking at something.

"That's the corpse of Little Li the farmer. Those murderous native savages killed him with a javelin, then cut off his head with a knife!"

Zhang Ganchao compared the Eastern Barbarian natives to the Tartars.

But Chen Jiao knew the natives took heads due to the chucao custom — in plain terms, a headhunting culture, similar to the Ming practice of counting heads for merit, not like the Tartars who displayed severed heads on stakes to spread terror.

Chen Jiao asked: "Which native village is besieging the fort?"

"From what my second brother said, it should be the Mattau clan."

Chen Jiao's heart sank. The Mattau clan was powerful — if it truly came to conflict, with the fifteen hundred men of Fort Zeelandia and Tayouan Islet plus the Long Wind as a single gunship, they really would be no match.

Even if they barely managed to defeat them, the remaining natives would just hide in the mountains and forests, launching raids every few days—then Chikan City would never know a moment of peace.

Moreover, once conflict broke out, the helmsman's plan to reform the natives' customs and habits would also come to nothing.

Chen Jiao weighed the matter again and again, then ordered his crew: "Dock at Chikan City."

Seeing the Changfeng approaching, the soldiers and civilians of Chikan City were overjoyed and rushed to the docks to welcome it.

That evening, Chen Jiao gathered the headmen and clerks of Chikan City for a meeting to discuss the matter, and made a point of having all three Zhang brothers attend.

The second Zhang brother, Zhang Tiemao, took off his outer garment, unwound the bandage on his left arm, and revealed the wound.

The wound was exactly as his younger brother had described—long and deep, clearly caused by a sharp blade. Had his luck been a little worse, he might well have lost the entire arm.

Chen Jiao told him to put his clothes back on.

Zhang Tiemao dressed himself as he spoke: "The Madou-she natives are serious this time. Just what I saw myself—dozens of warriors—and I even saw a Wangyi!"

"A Wangyi?"

At these words, whispers immediately broke out throughout the camp, and fear showed on every face.

A Wangyi (wāng) was what they called the female shaman of a native village. Her status among the natives was extremely lofty—she was something close to a spiritual leader and would not lightly leave her village.

Chen Jiao's men had been on the island for a long time now, and had even reached the entrance of the Madou-she village several times, yet they had never once laid eyes on a Wangyi—only heard a few scattered descriptions.

Rumor had it that the Wangyi was an incarnation of Alizu, the natives' ancestral spirit, and that during rituals she could summon the ancestral spirit into her body to convey divine oracles. She was said to possess mighty powers such as communicating with the dead and bridging the two realms.

Influenced by the helmsman, Chen Jiao himself did not believe such nonsense.

But the common folk of the Great Ming were deeply superstitious, and with the Wangyi so mysterious, even those who did not believe still felt profound dread.

Chen Jiao said: "No one has ever seen a Wangyi. How do you know what you saw was a Wangyi?"

That made sense, and many people turned to look at Zhang Tiemao with suspicion.

Zhang Tiemao's face showed terror: "The Wangyi looks completely different from other natives—you can tell at a single glance."

Hearing how certain he sounded, Chen Jiao asked again: "Did those Madou-she warriors say anything to you?"

Zhang Tiemao shook his head: "They only said they were from Madou-she and demanded we hand over the murderer."

Having traded with the natives for so long, most people could understand simple native words.

"What murderer?" Chen Jiao pressed.

"I don't know."

The camp fell into a momentary silence.

Chen Jiao asked those around him: "During the New Year period, did anyone leave Chikan City without permission?"

"Apart from the deer-hunting parties and the farming households, no one else."

"Deer-hunting parties always leave the city in groups of five. Even if something happened, they wouldn't all cover it up together, and the farming households are even less likely to be murderers."

Someone said: "Governor-General, forget all that. We have firearms—why fear the natives? Just lead us out to charge and kill them!"

Zhang Ganchao shook his fist and said: "Exactly! The natives' javelins may be fierce, but they're no match for muskets. Even if there really is a murderer here in Chikan, the natives killed our people too and wounded dozens more—we're already even!"

"Right! If anyone should hand over a murderer, it's the natives who should hand one over to us! Don't forget—Little Li's body still hasn't been buried!"

"A life for a life is only natural justice. Stop wasting words with the natives—if they want a fight, then we'll fight them!"

Chikan had been besieged for three days already, and everyone had been suppressed to the breaking point. Now that a single spark had fallen among them, the crowd's fervor erupted at once.

Chen Jiao vaguely felt that something about this matter was strange, yet he could not say what, and for the moment he could not make up his mind.

He thought to himself: "What would the helmsman do if he were here? The helmsman would surely see through to the crux at a single glance—even if it came to fighting, he could strike the natives down so thoroughly they'd have no strength to fight back!"

While he was hesitating, a soldier ran quickly in through the door: "Governor-General, outside the city—the natives are attacking!"

"What?" Everyone was greatly alarmed.

"Let's go see." Chen Jiao rose calmly, strode quickly out of the camp, and climbed the stockade wall.

The moon hung at its zenith. On the fields around Chikan, densely packed torches had suddenly appeared.

A rough count put the torches at over a thousand, stretching from east to west in a ring around the city, enveloping Chikan City within it.

And more torches were still emerging from the forest, flowing into the encirclement.

Gazing out from the stockade wall, it looked like a writhing, clawing fire-dragon.

Chen Jiao immediately ordered those around him: "Prepare sand and water buckets to guard against fire attacks. Tell the Changfeng to set sail and stand by to fire on my command. Issue weapons to every man in the city and get them up on the stockade wall!"

"Yes!" His subordinates withdrew to relay the orders.

Zhang Ganchao said: "Governor-General, you should board the ship too. We'll keep watch here."

Chen Jiao slowly shook his head.

Zhang Ganchao said urgently: "Look at this formation—the natives have all come. The Madou-she has over three thousand warriors; Chikan City may not hold. Governor-General, you must leave now!

The helmsman once said: keep the people and lose the land, and both people and land are kept; keep the land and lose the people, and both people and land are lost!"

Those were words Lin Qian had spoken to the refugees when withdrawing from Liaodong, and Zhang Ganchao had always kept them in his heart.

With the great enemy before them, Chen Jiao deliberately made light of it with a jest: "Those were the helmsman's words, weren't they? Fancy you remembering them."

In the time spent on this evasion, the torches in the farmlands below Chikan City had multiplied further, nearly forming a solid line.

Three thousand men might not sound like many, but it was more than enough to encircle the small city of Chikan tightly.

One had to remember that Chikan and Tayouan Isle combined had only a little over fifteen hundred people.

Within Chikan City, the able-bodied young men who could fight numbered only a little over three hundred, and there were not even enough muskets for one per man.

The Madou-she warriors numbered fully ten times Chikan's strength!

The native warriors merely gathering with torches beneath the city walls was enough to strike terror into every heart.

By now, out in the harbor, the Changfeng had already weighed anchor and raised sail—Chen Jiao no longer had any chance to board even if he wanted to.

Chen Jiao ordered Zhang Ganchao: "Prepare the red signal rockets, and have men stand by with tinderboxes, ready to light them at any moment. Also bring out all the carbon-heat agent the helmsman gave us!"

By the time Zhang Ganchao had relayed the orders and climbed back up the stockade wall carrying two sacks of carbon-heat agent, no more torches were emerging from the forest—the Madou-she warriors had completed their encirclement.

Out on the open ground beyond the city, a flute sound suddenly rose. It was low and mournful, like weeping and lamentation, with no melody at all—utterly different from the flute music of the Central Plains.

The listeners on the stockade wall felt goosebumps rise all over their skin.

A moment later, another flute joined in from further outside the city, and then yet another from even farther away.

Most of those flute notes were short and abrupt, yet they rose and fell one after another, and for a time it was as if a hundred ghosts were wailing through the night, sounding without end.

Heard in the ear, it was like someone endlessly scraping fingernails against a wall—utterly unbearable. Some people even covered their ears.

Chen Jiao's brows furrowed tightly as he stared at the distant torches. He saw that they had not moved at all, which was exceedingly strange.

Those flute sounds, meanwhile, never stopped.

Chen Jiao inexplicably thought back to the night of the naval battle on the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth month, and of Lin Qian's command.

Suddenly he understood, and said to Zhang Ganchao: "Quick, light the fires—throw the thermite! Throw it far!"

The soldiers had already blown their matchcords to a glowing red. Zhang Ganchao distributed the thermite, and in a moment, a dozen-odd thermite charges were hurled from the stockade wall, landing among the fields.

The reduction reaction began—blazing white lead flowed forth, immediately igniting the winter wheat and the weeds along the field ridges all around.

Illuminated by the firelight, many running figures could be seen in the darkness.

So that ring of torches really was just a ruse to deceive them!

Chen Jiao immediately ordered the signal rocket lit.

"Whoosh! Crack!"

The glowing red signal rocket burst with a bang.

Almost at the same moment, the broadside cannons on the Changfeng's flank fired in unison—six twelve-pounder Siren cannons spat tongues of flame, solid iron balls crashed down, splashing up great quantities of earth with a terrifying din.

From the darkness came the screams of the natives and the sound of blood raining down.

The remaining natives, seizing the time while the cannons were being reloaded, broke into a desperate sprint.

The moonlight was clear tonight. Once the natives came within fifty paces of Fort Zeelandia, their figures were already revealed by the moonlight.

Chen Jiao shouted: "Fire!"

On the stockade wall, over a hundred matchlock muskets fired in unison.

The natives' charging figures were densely packed—one volley brought them down like wheat before a scythe.

Though Chen Jiao's men were few, every gunner had been trained with copious live ammunition and fired at tremendous speed. The natives charged into a hail of lead, suffering enormous casualties.

They had barely managed to reach within fifty paces of the stockade wall when the Changfeng's cannons finished reloading and another round of fire came crashing in.

This time there was no firelight to guide the aim, and with the cannons' limited accuracy, the Changfeng dared not shoot too close to Fort Zeelandia.

This round of cannon fire almost entirely missed, yet it still made its fearsome impression.

Most of the natives had never seen firearms of such power. Their charging steps faltered slightly—and then the lead balls from the matchlock muskets on the stockade wall arrived in quick succession.

The charging natives struck by the matchlocks fell in another ring.

By the time the natives charged within twenty paces, dense clusters of thermite charges were hurled from the stockade wall.

Wherever the lead flowed, flames sprang up and carbon monoxide dispersed, forcing the native warriors to grind to a halt in their charge.

When the natives charged within ten paces, by the moonlight Chen Jiao could already make out the features of the native soldiers.

He saw that the native warriors included both men and women—all tall and powerfully built, with brown skin, carrying javelins, bows, and curved knives, moving with extraordinary agility like leopards in the forest.

The natives ran to the base of the stockade wall and hurled ropes upward. The moment a rope caught hold, they immediately climbed up with astonishing speed—almost as if walking on level ground.

Chen Jiao drew his blade with a scrape and roared: "Those with swords and spears, step forward to repel them! Those with matchlocks, stay back and shoot!"

Before the words had even died away, a native warrior vaulted over the crenellations and lunged straight at Chen Jiao.

The native's blade was short and sharp, and he swung with tremendous speed. Chen Jiao blocked the overhead strike and was about to parry again when he saw the native warrior staring in astonishment at the broken blade in his hand.

It turned out the native's sword was made of such poor steel that it had shattered outright in a single clash.

Chen Jiao seized the opportunity and delivered a diagonal slash. The native raised his hand to block in panic, and half his palm was sent flying through the air.

Blood splattered across Chen Jiao's face, seeping into his eyes.

Chen Jiao felt his vision turn entirely blood-red. Gathering all his strength, he drove his blade into the enemy's belly, then twisted it hard and yanked it free.

The native warrior's towering frame crashed to the ground.

Just then, flute sounds like a hundred ghosts wailing came from all directions. The native warriors halted at the sound, then retreated like an ebbing tide.

Zhang Ganchao, his eyes bloodshot from the killing, raised his matchlock to fire—but Chen Jiao grabbed the barrel and pushed it skyward.

"Bang!" The Portuguese matchlock fired a shot into the air.

"Cease fire, all of you! No more shooting!" Chen Jiao commanded at the top of his voice.

The soldiers on the stockade wall passed the order down the line.

"Why aren't we shooting?" Zhang Ganchao stared at the figures fading into the night, his face full of confusion.

Chen Jiao was silent for a long while, then said in a low voice: "I feel the natives' retreat is suspicious. They'd already climbed the stockade wall—the outcome was undecided—and yet they just left like that... Very strange!"

Zhang Ganchao was about to argue when someone pointed into the distance and said: "Look!"

Chen Jiao followed the voice and saw several bright bonfires appearing at the edge of the forest, illuminating the ground around them.

In the firelight stood a tall figure. Too far away to make out the face—even the build was hard to discern.

All that could be seen was that the person's body was covered in interwoven tattoos, like ancient totems, reflecting glimmers of phosphorescent light in the fire's glow—utterly eerie.

Suddenly, the flute sounds from all directions gradually ceased.

In the open wilderness, a woman's singing arose.

Calling it singing was somewhat generous—it was more like chanting incantations. The voice was extremely low, so low it sounded almost like a man's, and it carried far—even the stockade wall could faintly hear it.

Chen Jiao ordered a yellow signal rocket fired, and the Changfeng's cannon fire ceased.

The wilderness fell quiet, and the woman's chanting became clearer, though the content still could not be made out.

All that could be faintly discerned was that the sound came from the direction of the bonfire.

Chen Jiao felt goosebumps rise all over his body and understood why Zhang Tiemao had said one could recognize a Tang-ki at a single glance.

Even from this distant look, Chen Jiao could be certain—this person was undoubtedly the Tang-ki of the Madou tribe.

"Governor-General, what do we do?" Zhang Ganchao's voice trembled slightly. After all, they were strangers in a strange land, and in the dead of night, personally watching a shamaness chant and summon spirits—even the boldest man would feel a chill run down his spine.

In truth, Chen Jiao's heart was also pounding. The native shamaness was so mysterious that he couldn't be certain whether she truly possessed supernatural power.

But with the helmsman absent, he was the commander of Chikan City. He could not show the slightest sign of panic. Mimicking Lin Qian's manner, he forced himself to stay calm and said flatly, "Inspect the city defenses, tend to the wounded, and keep careful watch."

"Yes, sir!" His subordinates, infected by Chen Jiao's composure, answered in loud voices.

At this moment, at the edge of the forest, before the bonfire.

Several dozen natives of the Mattau clan knelt in supplication, foreheads pressed to the ground, palms facing upward, their faces devout.

Compared with ordinary natives, these people's clothing bore more intricate patterns, and the hair strands on their scabbards were denser.

These were the elders and war chiefs of the Mattau clan. Kneeling at the very front was the person of highest status in the Mattau clan—the clan chieftain.

The chieftain's name was Aban, over thirty years old, tall and robust. His clothing and ornaments were no different from the elders', save that the hair on his scabbard was as thick and dense as a horse's mane.

This was the symbol of martial merit among the eastern barbarian natives. Every time a native warrior personally killed an enemy, he would cut off a lock of the enemy's hair and affix it to his scabbard.

In the thirty-plus years of Aban's life, he had personally killed twenty-five enemies, and only thus had he crafted such a scabbard.

It was also because of his martial exploits that he had been recommended by the elders to succeed to the position of chieftain.

Under his leadership, the Mattau clan had distinguished itself among the four great plains clans, leaping forward to become the largest of them all.

Just as he was seeking his next adversary in battle, the Han people from across the sea appeared.

They settled on Tayouan Isle, then opened up farmland at Chikan and built stockades.

Aban's battle-blood, dormant for many years, was once again summoned by the ancestral spirits and began to boil.

He wanted to rally the clan's warriors, to seize back the forests, the streams, the wilderness—to seize back the hunting grounds that belonged to the Mattau clan.

But the cunning Han traded with the Mattau villages and hypocritically befriended them.

As a result, most of the tribesmen held favorable feelings toward the Han, and his proposal for war was rejected again and again.

Finally, three days ago, a group of Han ran to the vicinity of the Mattau clan, killed twelve natives, and shamelessly raped five young women.

The tribesmen's fury was thoroughly ignited, and Aban led his people in launching a siege against Chikan City.

But the tribe's shamaness only wanted the Han to hand over the murderers; she did not want to expand the war.

Tonight the shamaness was not in the camp. Aban seized the opportunity to launch an all-out assault, determined to take Chikan City in one stroke and add more hair strands to the scabbards of his clan's warriors.

Taking Chikan seemed imminent.

But unexpectedly, the shamaness rushed back in time and threw everything into chaos. Not only did she call a halt to the attack, but the clan elders—Aban included—had to kneel here for a long while, listening to the ancestral spirits' decree.

At last, the lengthy shamaness ritual came to an end.

Surrounded by bonfires, the shamaness slowly opened her eyes. Her gaze was vacant, like a puppet on strings, her body covered in tattoos that flickered in the firelight.

The shamaness's head twisted unnaturally to an exaggerated angle, and she said to Aban, "The blood of the tribe has flowed onto the wrong land."

Aban's head was pressed to the ground, so he could not see the shamaness's movements, yet he could clearly feel the ancestral spirits' scorching gaze, as if it would pierce straight through him, making his back prickle like needles.

The shamaness's voice was also utterly different from usual, its gender almost indiscernible. She spoke slowly: "The evil spirits lurk in the demon realm to the north, and have already come riding against the black current."

Yahei

Fenyuan

Pen