Chapter 295: Smuggling the Gan Report, Bombarding Zhenjiang

The scene grew somewhat tense, yet Lin Qian remained oblivious, still chatting with Xu Guangqi about the signal stations.

Xu Guangqi, however, looked somewhat worried.

"Academy Head, no need to fret. It's nothing to worry about," Lin Qian reassured him.

Xu Guangqi nodded uneasily and said, "This method of transmitting messages—I can give it a try. By the way, does it have a name?" No sooner had he spoken than a roar came from the alley: "Over here! Stop right there!"

Lin Qian tossed aside his wooden stick and brushed the dirt from his hands: "How about calling it 'telegram'?"

Xu Guangqi nodded: "Taking the meaning of swift transmission, racing like lightning? A fine name."

"Hahaha, got him! You donkey-buggered bastard, thought you could run!"

Several dull thuds sounded from the alley—clearly the guards taking out their anger on the man.

Lin Qian propped his chin on his hand: "No, I'd rather save the name 'telegram' for later use, or else things will get confused. Why not have the Academy Head come up with a name instead?" By then, the unidentified man had been seized by the guards and was being dragged out of the alley, heading their way.

Xu Guangqi's attention was entirely drawn away, and he didn't pause to ponder what Lin Qian meant by "save for later use."

He said offhandedly: "This method resembles beacon fires—it requires eyesight and multiple relay points. Why not call it 'beacon message'?"

"A fine name—beacon message it is. In that case, I entrust the development of the beacon message to you, Academy Head."

Xu Guangqi accepted the charge.

As they spoke, the man was brought before them.

Geng Wu tossed a stack of newspapers to the ground and reported with cupped fists: "Helmsman, he's a smuggler of the Gan Report."

Lin Qian looked down and saw that the stack of newspapers looked exactly like the Nan'ao Times in every respect—except it clearly bore the two characters "Gan Report."

Within Nan'ao's borders, very few things were forbidden for sale, and the Gan Report was one of the banned items.

But just as Lin Qian's economic theory held, administrative measures could only accomplish so much—the Gan Report was banned all the more fiercely, and the more it was banned, the higher the price climbed, and the more it was smuggled. Lin Qian reached out his hand, and Geng Wu, quick on the uptake, pulled out a single newspaper and placed it in Lin Qian's hand.

"How much does one copy of the Gan Report cost?"

The smuggler was scared out of his wits. Before him stood more than fifty guards, their torches blazing bright as day, and he was engaged in a forbidden trade—he feared that beheading was unavoidable this time. In his terror, he paid no heed to Lin Qian's question at all.

Geng Wu bellowed: "Answer!"

The smuggler's body trembled, and he immediately dropped to his knees: "One open-sheet for a bird coin."

Converted, that came to roughly two and a half cents in silver dollars—nearly ten times the price of the Nan'ao Times.

Lin Qian asked again: "How long have you been selling it? How's business?"

The smuggler pulled some silver dollars from his bosom and tossed them on the ground, stammering: "Only been selling for half a month—all the silver I've earned is right here. Please, sir, spare my life, spare my life..."

With that, he thumped his head against the ground.

Geng Wu counted the money and said: "Helmsman, roughly five or six taels of silver dollars."

"Helm... Helmsman?" The smuggler stopped kowtowing and raised his head in disbelief, staring at Lin Qian.

He'd been selling the Gan Report and had been caught red-handed by the Helmsman himself? Heavens above!

Lin Qian did the math: five or six taels meant roughly twenty-four copies sold. Compared to the Nan'ao Times' circulation, it was naturally nothing worth mentioning—but this thing could be passed around and shared. Those who had read Yuan Chonghuan's lies might number far more than just these buyers.

Seeing Lin Qian silent, not only was the smuggler nearly scared to death—behind him, Foshan Guild Head Huo Ying, the Foshan County Magistrate, and the Guangzhou Prefect all felt needles prickling their backs, and even Ye Yifan couldn't help but grow tense.

Lin Qian flipped through the Gan Report. The content was the same old routine of rumors and slander, and the most vicious fabrication—the one hardest to refute—was tying Nan'ao together with the Jianzhou barbarians.

The paper claimed that during the Jisi Incident, while the court was resisting Hong Taiji's invasion in Beizhili, Nan'ao had seized the opportunity to take Guangxi—this was coordinating with the Jianzhou barbarians from north and south. The She-An rebels had been nearly wiped out by Zhu Xieyuan, but Nan'ao supplied them with weapons and provisions, and harassed the Ming army from the rear, allowing the rebellion to flare back to life—this was stirring chaos in the southwest to tie down Liaodong.

Hong Taiji had ordered Tong Yangxing to organize a professional artillery corps, called "Ujen Cooha" in the Jurchen language—technology Nan'ao had carried across the sea. Nan'ao not only taught the Jianzhou barbarians to cast cannons but had also seized Macao early on, strictly preventing the Great Ming from obtaining cannon-casting technology.

The paper ran nearly ten thousand characters, citing sources far and wide with countless arguments—every word aimed at the heart. It even included illustrations of Nan'ao supplying cannons to the Jianzhou barbarians. Since ancient times, the Chinese art of slinging mud at one's enemies had been famously potent, and Jiangxi, being the stronghold of the Donglin Faction with flourishing culture and education, was deeply versed in this craft.

Last year, Zheng Zhilong's denunciation of the Sultan of Aceh had left Sultan Muda with no room for rebuttal, forcing him to launch his suicidal attack.

But now, comparing Zheng Zhilong's proclamation to the Gan Report's articles was like comparing a minor sorcerer to a great one.

Their skill at slinging mud was bad enough, but Yuan Chonghuan's men were also improving quickly. When the Gan Report first launched, every article was stuffed with classical particles and obscure characters, utterly disregarding common folk as readers.

But now, vernacular articles had actually appeared—even translations of classical texts, or pieces half-vernacular and half-classical.

Whether this disgraced the literati was unclear, but among the common people, it spread much faster.

Indeed, feeling their way across the river by touching Nan'ao's stones—they learned quickly.

Seeing everyone's curiosity, Lin Qian simply passed the Gan Report around for them to read.

After reading it, Xu Guangqi rare as it was flew into a rage and hurled the paper to the ground: "Utter nonsense!"

Ye Yifan said with righteous indignation: "Helmsman, I'll go back right now and write a rebuttal to refute them!"

Xu Guangqi nodded: "I too am willing to speak out for justice!"

Zheng Zhilong crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it away, saying dismissively: "Justice resides in the hearts of the people. Who's right and who's wrong—the common folk can see clearly."

Lin Qian shook his head: "Academy Head Xu bears the heavy responsibilities of the Grand Academy and the beacon message, and must also tutor my son in his studies—he's already swamped with affairs. Why should he waste his energy on a war of words?

And Governor Ye, you oversee an entire province—no need to exert yourself on this matter either.

After all, a rumor takes but a mouth to spread, while refuting it takes legs that run until they break. Against this kind of slander, arguing and rebutting are useless."

Ye Yifan said in a grim tone: "This official will conduct strict inspections throughout Guangdong—anyone daring to smuggle this paper will be punished without mercy!"

The smuggler's whole body shuddered.

Lin Qian knew that strict inspections and harsh punishments had only limited effect. Jiangxi couldn't stop the flow of Nan'ao's goods, and Nan'ao was the same in return.

As for expecting justice to reside in people's hearts, or counting on the common folk's eyes to be sharp—that was even more absurd.

The common folk had sharp eyes but soft ears—whoever spoke last was usually the one they believed.

Back in the day, when Zengzi's mother heard three people in succession come to report that Zengzi had killed someone, even she was stricken with fear and wanted to leap over the wall to flee—so how much more so for ordinary folk?

The best way to deal with slander was to slander right back—to spread rumors that Yuan Chonghuan was colluding with the enemy.

But that tactic was rather crude; in the end it would just be two people grabbing each other's hair and tearing—mutual destruction.

Lin Qian had a better method—his arrangement in Liaodong. On one hand, he weakened the Jianzhou barbarians; on the other, he kept them alive as Nan'ao's legal justification. Whenever the people's memory faded and they questioned why Nan'ao only fought the Great Ming and not the Jianzhou barbarians, Lin Qian would launch a major raiding campaign in Liaodong. Whenever someone slung mud, claiming Nan'ao was expert at civil war but inept at foreign war, Lin Qian would go to Liaodong and prove them wrong.

Geng Wu asked: "Helmsman, how should we deal with this smuggler?"

Lin Qian said: "Handle him the same way smugglers have always been handled."

The private news peddler let out a long breath—prison and a fine were still better than losing his head.

The standoff between Nan'ao and Jiangxi was not something that could be resolved by dealing with private news peddlers.

At the root of it all, what was needed was a great victory in Liaodong.

Lin Qian looked toward the northeast. It was already early summer now; the summer monsoon was gradually forming. With the hawk ships sailing north on a fair wind, the orders should arrive in five or six days.

When that time came, it would be up to Bai Qing and Mao Wenlong.

After the Yichou Uprising, the Jianzhou barbarians and the Joseon court opened two frontier trade markets—Zhongjiang and Huining.

Huining was located in Hamgyong Province in the northeast of Joseon, along the banks of the Tumen River.

Zhongjiang, meanwhile, sat right on the Yalu River—an island in the middle of the river, separated from Zhenjiang City by only a slow-moving channel.

Under the brotherhood pact signed between the Jianzhou barbarians and Joseon, the two sides opened the market once each season. Now that the summer market was open, the Yalu River was crowded with trading vessels—a lively scene indeed.

Besides the Eight Banners' official merchants, Zhongjiang also drew traders from the Mongols, the Haidong Jurchen, the Solon people, and others. Even Hong Taiji had graciously permitted a small number of private merchants to do minor business—they were called market-permit merchants.

The Zhongjiang market had only two entrances—one at the south end of the island and one at the north—and nearly a thousand people passed through each day. The soldiers never checked anyone one by one.

Kong Youde and Meng Tingchuan slipped in with almost no effort at all.

To prepare for the Battle of Zhenjiang, the two had been sent to survey the hydrology and military situation along the Yalu River. But this work could only be done at night—sailing the river by day was suicide. As luck would have it, the Zhongjiang market happened to be open, so Kong Youde brought Meng Tingchuan in to see the sights.

After passing through the gate, Meng Tingchuan, still shaken, complained to Kong Youde: "I really am risking my life to keep you company!"

Kong Youde laughed and patted the felt cap on his head: "Relax, just don't take this hat off and we're fine. The inspections are loose. You Nan'ao soldiers don't covet money yourselves, so you think everyone else is an iron army too?

I've been here several times already. Even if we get spotted, we just pretend to be Shandong merchants and a bit of silver sends them off. And if we're truly cornered, I still have this."

As he spoke, Kong Youde patted the small knife at his waist.

Meng Tingchuan looked tense: "What do you mean? Fight our way out with that thing?"

Kong Youde burst out laughing: "Hahaha... Do you think I'm Zhao Yun reincarnated? How would I fight with that? It's for shaving my head—shave it into that bald-pate look of the Tartars, and we're safe."

Meng Tingchuan was still uneasy.

Kong Youde was already strolling leisurely through the market. The two had deliberately changed into commoners' clothes, and as they walked they hunched their backs and tucked their hands into their sleeves, hiding their soldierly bearing—no different from ordinary folk.

"The Zhongjiang market stays open for half a month at a stretch. If we strike within the next couple of days, we can sweep up all the Han traitors and running dogs on this island in one net." Kong Youde shot Meng Tingchuan a meaningful glance, telling him to look into the distance.

Meng Tingchuan looked over and saw dozens of felt tents pitched on an open patch of ground, with Tartar soldiers patrolling around them. Each Tartar soldier's armor bore a strip of pale yellow cloth. "Those are the official merchants of the Bordered Yellow Banner," Kong Youde whispered. "The Bordered Yellow and Plain Yellow Banners are personally commanded by the old chieftain himself. Of all the official merchants, they put on the grandest airs—quite imperious."

Meng Tingchuan asked in surprise: "The old chieftain? Nurhaci?"

"Shh!" Kong Youde made a silencing gesture, glanced left and right, then said in a low voice, "That name can't be bandied about carelessly."

"I thought he was dead." Meng Tingchuan kept walking as he spoke in a low voice.

Kong Youde gave a light laugh: "You southerners don't understand a thing... The old chieftain has merely retired to be the Supreme Khan—he's still alive and well." "Oh."

Walking on a bit further, they saw that most of what the market sold were daily necessities—bowls, chopsticks, porcelain, farm tools—along with small amounts of ginseng, deer antler, and sable fur.

"I don't see any silk or grain for sale?" Meng Tingchuan remarked in surprise.

Kong Youde said: "Grain, silk, cloth, salt, and horses—these are all bulk goods. The Eight Banners' official merchants buy them up directly; they're never put on display. Of the two markets at Zhongjiang and Huining, Zhongjiang sells the most grain. Especially in the last few markets, the Jianzhou barbarians have been stockpiling grain even more heavily. The commander suspects the Jianzhou barbarians may be planning something big, which is why I come here often to scout... look at that..."

Kong Youde suddenly pointed into the distance with delight. Meng Tingchuan looked over and saw only a tea-and-wine stall where some traveling merchants sat resting—nothing special. But looking more carefully, Meng Tingchuan noticed several empty wine jars stacked beside the stall—the very vessels Nan'ao used to transport honey wine.

Meng Tingchuan grew interested. He and Kong Youde walked up together, asked the stall owner for prices, and each bought a bowl of wine. One taste confirmed it—this was indeed Nan'ao honey wine.

The two drank as they sounded out the stall owner about his business. The owner said the honey wine had a pure flavor and a distinctive taste. In the Liaodong region, grain was barely enough for food, let alone for brewing liquor, so the cheap and generously portioned honey wine was very popular.

Meng Tingchuan was delighted inwardly—it seemed the plan to blunt the enemy's edge through trade was already taking shape.

As they drank, Kong Youde's eyes roamed around, then suddenly locked onto a target. He went over to a table of Mongol merchants and struck up a conversation.

Perhaps finding the talk agreeable, Kong Youde called for more wine from the owner—and demanded the good stuff.

The owner opened a fresh jar of honey wine, and the moment the seal broke, a rich aroma burst forth.

This was high-proof honey wine brewed with distillation techniques. The technique was still immature—the wine had a distinct burnt flavor, a bitter aftertaste of sugarcane dregs, burned the throat going down and the guts after. It was full of impurities, and drinking too much went straight to the head.

In Jiangnan and Lingnan, banquets centered on yellow wine, and the drinking culture prized warmth, elegance, lightness, and smoothness—so high-proof honey wine had little market in the southeast. In Liaodong, however, the situation was completely different. There, winters buried the mountains in snow, life was hard, and wars raged year after year. Whether for keeping warm, relieving fatigue, bolstering courage, or drowning sorrows, they needed high-proof liquor. They didn't care about refinement—the higher the proof, the better the wine!

Soon enough, Kong Youde was drinking himself silly with that table of Mongols, draining the entire jar dry. He then sprawled over the table for half an hour until the Mongols had all left, at which point he staggered back with a face full of glee, grabbed Meng Tingchuan, and headed out.

"Done! I found where the Jianzhou barbarians are stockpiling grain!"

The two hurried out at a fast pace, exiting through the north gate of Zhongjiang. Only after they had boarded their boat and sailed well away did they finally let out a breath of relief.

Meng Tingchuan immediately pressed Kong Youde on what he had learned.

Kong Youde laughed: "Just as the commander predicted—the Jianzhou barbarians are stockpiling grain and preparing for war!"

Meng Tingchuan tensed up: "Where are they going to attack?"

Kong Youde said: "That I don't know. But I do know the Jianzhou barbarians' grain ships are all sailing up the Ai River. If they were headed for Liaoyang or Shenyang, they'd have to pass through Fenghuang City!"

A few days later, at the front line off Shenmi Island.

Bai Qing received three pieces of news at once.

The helmsman's reply approved her battle plan for Zhenjiang, and warned her to be wary of Joseon—and also of Mao Wenlong's adopted sons and grandsons.

Mao Wenlong's intelligence suggested that the upper reaches of the Ai River, around Fenghuang City, was the Jianzhou barbarians' granary.

A secret letter from Joseon agreed to Nan'ao's request for a trade market at Jiao Island, on the condition that the Nan'ao fleet relieve military pressure in the north—specifically, by taking Zhenjiang and Fenghuang City.

The situation was now perfectly clear. Bai Qing convened the fleet's senior officers, summoned Mao Wenlong, and drew up the attack plan. The time was set for dawn three days hence. At the same time, news of the Nan'ao fleet's arrival at Jiao Island had only just reached the ears of the Bordered Yellow Banner's official merchants via the trade market.

Far away in Shenyang, Hong Taiji was still raging over the defeat in the Northern Zhili campaign.

After the Jisi Incident, Hong Taiji had seized thirteen prefectures and counties in Northern Zhili, but less than a year after taking them, Sun Chengzong—appointed by that brat Chongzhen—had snatched them all back.

After punishing his defeated generals, Hong Taiji came to a profound realization: to hold territory inside the pass, he had to break through the Liaoxi Corridor.

The Great Jin could enter the pass a hundred times through Xifengkou and other routes, but with their retreat cut off by Shanhai Pass, they could never hold the lands they took.

To enter the Central Plains and claim the realm, Shanhai Pass must be broken.

But that old bone Sun Chengzong had raised two formidable cities in Liaoxi—Ningyuan and Jinzhou!

In the sixth year of Tianqi, Hong Taiji's father, Khan Nurhaci, had been dead set on storming Ningyuan by force.

At the critical moment, Hong Taiji reminded his father of the two disastrous defeats at the Battle of Zhenjiang and the Battle of Fuzhou—that the Great Jin's iron cavalry was no match for solid walls and great cannons—and finally persuaded Nurhaci to abandon the plan.

Hong Taiji led the Eight Banners iron cavalry west to conquer Chahar, expanding his territory on the Mongol grasslands, clearing the way for the Jisi Incident, and successfully turning a bad move into a killing stroke.

Since then, Hong Taiji's standing in the Great Jin had soared, while Nurhaci grew old and frail, his energy no longer what it once was.

Hong Taiji had already made independent decisions on many major matters—such as the northern campaign against the remaining Jurchen tribes and the eastern expedition against the Yi dynasty—securing an excellent situation for the Great Jin. Yet Hong Taiji never forgot the shame of those two defeats. The massive solid iron cannonball his men had discovered in the ruins during the Battle of Zhenjiang ten years ago hung over his head like a sharpened sword.

He understood that to defeat the Ming army and Lin Qian, he must establish the Great Jin's own artillery force—and so the Ujen Cooha units came into being.

By now, the Later Jin had produced forty copies of the red barbarian cannon, giving them the power to besiege cities.

Just then, Sun Chengzong, having resumed command of Liaodong, sent Zu Dashou to repair Dalinghe City, intending to build another stronghold beyond Ningyuan and Jinzhou. How could Hong Taiji allow such a thing to happen? He ordered the gathering of provisions and the conscription of troops for war.

When Yuan Chonghuan had been repairing Ningyuan City before, the Great Jin had a chance to launch a surprise attack early—Manggultai's Plain Blue Banner army had already assembled around Haizhou, ready to advance.

But that despicable wretch Lin Qian had launched the Battle of Fuzhou, crippling the Plain Blue Banner, abducting the people of Fuzhou, and allowing Ningyuan to be completed without interference. Now Lin Qian had raised troops in the southeast against the Ming, and that brat Chongzhen had thrown the Ming's main forces into Jiangxi to face him—neither side had the capacity to pay attention to Liaodong. This was the perfect moment for Hong Taiji to strike!

This time, no one would be able to stop the Eight Banners iron cavalry!

Dalinghe City, Zu Dashou—Hong Taiji would take them all into his grasp!

The fifteenth day of the fourth month, first year of Chongzhen. Early morning.

Dawn was just breaking; the thin mist over the river had not yet dispersed.

In Zhenjiang City, most of the Tartar soldiers were still fast asleep.

Since Hong Taiji had taken charge, frontier trade with the Mongols and the Yi dynasty had brought in large quantities of Central Plains goods, and life for soldiers and civilians alike had generally improved—these soldiers far from the capital had grown lazy and slack.

A Han soldier guarding the gate tower was woken by a full bladder. Yawning, he climbed onto the city wall and pissed toward the Yalu River.

At that moment, within the hazy mist in the distance, several enormous black silhouettes slowly emerged.

The Han soldier blinked hard and looked into the mist again—the silhouettes were even larger now, as if sea monsters were approaching.

Soon, the bow of the Zhulong emerged from the mist, its lateen yardarm slanting toward the sky, three huge triangular sails all billowing full of wind. As the midsection of the Zhulong gradually appeared, its absurdly massive mainsail came into view.

The Han soldier was completely stunned, not even noticing that he had pissed on his own shoes.

A moment later, he snapped back to his senses and shouted: "En—"

Almost at the same time, red flashes flickered repeatedly through the mist, followed by earth-shattering cannon thunder rolling forth.

Before the Han soldier's eyes, a black dot rapidly grew larger. The next second, his skull shattered, red and white spraying everywhere, and his body toppled stiffly backward, twitching continuously on the city wall.

The cannonball's momentum did not diminish—it smashed straight into the city, punching through a house's roof and walls, collapsing the entire building.

Then more cannonballs came, and in an instant the whole of Zhenjiang City was transformed from peaceful stillness into a shaking, quaking hell.

After just one round of bombardment, rising dust shrouded most of Zhenjiang.

Ten years ago, the Tianyuan alone could smash Zhenjiang into ruins in a single night. Now the Baiqing Fleet had 284 cannons in total—one broadside could fire 142 shells, ten times the firepower of the Tianyuan back then!

When the fleet fired together, the cannon thunder was muffled and heavy, like rolling ground thunder, its echoes rumbling endlessly through the mountains on both banks of the Yalu River. Shells fell into the city—the dull thud of impacts against the ground mixed with the crisp crack of shattering brick and stone, deafening beyond measure, drowning out all screams and cries of alarm. Only the occasional shrill, desperate shriek could be heard intermittently through the gunsmoke and lingering tremors.

Mao Wenlong lay in ambush with three hundred men on the official road northwest of Zhenjiang. Even five li away, he could still hear the thunderous roar and feel the ground trembling beneath him.

A wave of fear washed over him. Only now did he truly believe that the Nan'ao Fleet's flattening of Pidao was no empty boast—had Baiqing not gone to the island alone, he himself would likely have been blasted into dust and ashes by now.

After waiting nearly an hour, Mao Wenlong finally lost patience. He climbed to a high spot, took out a telescope, and gazed toward Zhenjiang.

One look and he was stunned. The sun was rising in the east, and in the distance the mist over the river had not only failed to disperse—it had mixed with the gunsmoke from the cannon muzzles, forming a thick, dense cloud.

Every time the cannons fired, the mist along the fleet's broadside was instantly pushed aside, leaving a trail marking the shell's trajectory.

The cloud, roasted by over a hundred scorching-hot cannon barrels and squeezed by the trajectories, rolled, curled, and churned like boiling water.

The shadows of the six Nan'ao gunboats stretched end to end within the cloud, appearing and disappearing, spanning nearly two hundred zhang—head visible but tail unseen, like... like a true dragon stirring wind and rain within!

The sight was too overwhelming—not to mention what the Jianzhou barbarians inside Zhenjiang City must have felt, even Mao Wenlong himself was terrified.

Just as he stood there dumbfounded, the west gate of Zhenjiang City burst open, a plume of dust rising.

Mao Wenlong's heart tightened. He hurried down the slope, returned to his personal guards, and said in a low voice: "Brothers, the chance to kill Tartars has come!"

Yahei

Fenyuan

Pen