Chapter 394: The Belated Reinforcements

Xu Chen obeyed the order to fall back, swiftly changing formation with his fellow soldiers.

Under the Seventh Division's organization, each infantry battalion had four companies beneath it, just enough for each company to cover one side, so the formation change was extremely fast.

But after fighting for so long, each company had suffered some casualties, and the company and platoon commanders were adjusting their formations.

"Fix bayonets!" an officer shouted.

Xu Chen drew his bayonet and deftly locked it onto the muzzle. His ammunition was spent, so he stepped up to the front rank himself, crouched low, both hands gripping the flintlock musket, bayonet angled upward.

At that moment the hoofbeats grew louder—behind the entire army, a troop of cavalry was galloping, judging by the dust only a few hundred riders strong.

Yet by the sound and fury of it, they might as well have been a thousand horses and ten thousand men.

During the Battle of the Lu River, Xu Chen had seen Sha Dingzhou's cavalry—fierce beyond compare, their spirit soaring like a rainbow—but set against the few hundred Ming riders before him now, they were as different as mud from clouds.

The cavalry troop galloped for a stretch, then at a whistle signal, the whole force wheeled in perfect unison and slammed hard into a Xia army company on the southern line.

That company's reserves behind them had already been fully committed, its front was pinned down by heavy Tianxiong Army forces, and it had not yet formed into a hollow square—just at the moment its formation was in disarray, the cavalry struck with devastating force.

In an instant, men screamed and horses neighed, blood-red dust flew up on all sides, and cries of agony mingled into a single din.

The close-quarters clash lasted barely a moment before the cavalry wheeled about and withdrew—seeming like a dragonfly skimming water, a rider viewing flowers from horseback—but when the dust cleared, that company lay strewn with dead and wounded, the heaviest losses on both flanks.

Its officers were hoarsely screaming orders for the remnants to re-form their ranks.

Even as the cavalry retreated, they kept twisting around to loose arrows, picking off the loudly shouting officers one by one.

Every rider in this troop was skilled with both bow and horse, brave beyond measure. They looked like a packed mob charging in chaos, but in truth they had real method—their lancers and horse-archers coordinated with each other, effective at both long and short range. Though only a few hundred strong, they could slash left and right behind the Xia army's back as if entering uninhabited land.

Most conspicuous was a valiant general at the very front of the cavalry, clad in full armor half-drenched in blood, wielding a great crescent-blade saber in wide, sweeping strokes that ten thousand men could not withstand. And since the Xia army's cavalry instructor Kong Youde had already returned to Pidao, and Ma Xianglin was far off in the southwest, not a single one of the Great Xia army's fierce generals was present—no soldier or officer among the rest could match this Ming dynasty valiant general.

The cavalry troop rampaged back and forth for a long while, then charged and fought a bit more—and suddenly came straight for the square formation where Xu Chen stood.

Several hundred iron riders, their strides nearly identical, their hooves like urgent drumbeats, shaking the ground until men's feet went numb and their hearts raced.

"Hold steady! Don't panic, hold steady!" officers shouted from behind the ranks of soldiers.

The cavalry quickly closed to within a hundred paces, the thunderous pounding of hooves nearly drowning out the officers' commands behind them.

Xu Chen saw the cavalry troop charging straight at him and his heart clenched. That fierce general in the lead raised his long blade, the edge still dripping blood, the tip angled directly at the space between Xu Chen's brows.

In such a situation, even a man with Lü Bu's valor would have to dodge aside.

But every soldier of the Seventh Division had been trained against cavalry charges, and at this moment not a single one turned and fled.

Quite a few soldiers in the front ranks simply shut their eyes and roared at the top of their lungs to drive out their fear.

Xu Chen's limbs went stiff; he mustered every ounce of strength in his arms and welded his bayonet-fixed flintlock to the ground, veins bulging across his neck, chest thrust out as he bellowed: "Come on!"

With his shout, a volley of gunfire erupted above his head, the sound rattling Xu Chen's ears into a ringing buzz.

Through the gunsmoke, he saw only a dozen or so riders topple, a tangle of men and horses crashing down.

The two neighboring square formations opened fire as well, and another layer of cavalry fell, the charge stalling for a moment.

But these were northern war horses, tall and large, their charge speed tremendous—a hundred paces was crossed almost in the blink of an eye.

Reaching the front of the formation, the leading Ming valiant general wrenched his horse's head around in a sharp pivot on the spot, scraping past the forest of bayonets by a hair's breadth, then suddenly swung his blade—the long saber arcing into a full moon as it came crashing down.

Xu Chen felt a gust of wind brush past his face; the next instant, a tremendous force slammed through the musket, ripping it clean out of his hands. He himself was dragged down by the force and sent sprawling to the ground, both hands numb, his tiger's-mouths aching fiercely.

Looking up, he saw a headless corpse lying beside him, blood gushing from the neck, the head lost somewhere unknown. So that blow had been aimed at the man next to Xu Chen—Xu Chen had been lucky to escape with his life.

His flintlock musket lay toppled beside the corpse, its barrel dented by the cut.

Without a moment's hesitation, Xu Chen snatched up a fallen comrade's flintlock from the ground and held his position. In that instant, the cavalry had already thundered past before him. The other war horses, seeing the gleaming bayonets, neighed in fright and either stopped dead in their tracks or turned on their own to charge elsewhere.

Not a single war horse dared to hurl itself onto that wall of bayonets.

When Ming cavalry charged a formation, they rarely struck the front head-on—most often they used flank charges or rear charges.

In extreme situations, such as this battle, when the enemy formed hollow squares with no flanks or rear to speak of, they used the corner-cutting tactic.

That is, as the cavalry swept past the side of a square formation, they twisted around at the corner and swung their blades to kill the enemy.

When Lu Xiangsheng charged, he first intimidated with sheer momentum; seeing the Xia army's formation showed not a single crack, he chose to wheel and cut the corner.

But faced with that dense forest of bayonets, even if the Tianxiong Army itself was unafraid, the war horses dared not draw near, and the corner-cutting tactic reaped scant kills.

Instead, the Ming cavalry found themselves trapped between two hollow squares, and as they passed in and out, more of them were blasted down by the Xia army's gunfire.

By the time the cavalry rode clear of the formation, Lu Xiangsheng looked back and counted—of three hundred riders, more than half were already lost.

And ahead of him, eight hollow squares were arrayed in staggered ranks front to back, each separated by over thirty zhang, with all the cannons stuffed into the gaps between the squares.

They looked open on all four sides, but in truth they were like eight hedgehogs rolled into balls—nowhere to get a grip.

Had he still possessed troops at this moment, Lu Xiangsheng could have massed heavy forces and artillery to crack open these hedgehog balls one by one.

But alas—he swept his gaze forward and back. The Ming troops on the northern and central lines had all routed, the Zhejiang soldiers on the southern line were all dead or fled, leaving only a thousand-odd Tianxiong Army men still holding on in bitter struggle.

After several more volleys of gunfire swept through them, the thousand-odd Tianxiong soldiers were reduced to just over eight hundred.

And behind the eight hollow squares, Lei Sanxiang's thousand-strong reserve force had already reached the battlefield; further back still, a plume of dust rose—that was Zhang Moye's three thousand mounted infantry arriving.

Even if every one of the thousand-odd Tianxiong Army remnants in Lu Xiangsheng's hands was Lü Bu reborn, they could not win this battle now.

Faced with this situation, his subordinates all urged him: "Your Excellency, our army is defeated—better to withdraw!"

"Your Excellency, we still have the rear army; please move to the rear forces to direct the fight!"

"This defeat is not Your Excellency's fault—blame it all on that eunuch dog Gao Qiqian!"

Lu Xiangsheng raised his head to the sky and let out a bitter smile. He knew in his heart that this battle had spent all the elite troops of Zhejiang and Zhili.

Lu Xiangjin's and Gao Qiqian's tens of thousands of troops were all a rabble—fine as auxiliaries or cannon fodder, but utterly incapable of meeting the Xia army head-on. Moreover, this battle had lost men and generals alike, Nanjing was in imminent peril, and given the Emperor's temperament, he would never allow Lu Xiangsheng to plan at leisure and raise new forces.

Once he withdrew, nine times out of ten he would follow in Yuan Chonghuan's footsteps.

Rather than have some vermin of the court pin the infamy of a criminal minister on him—or even worse, be wrongfully accused of defecting to the enemy—better to die honorably in battle and preserve his name intact.

Thinking this far, Lu Xiangsheng said: "I have received His Majesty's great grace of promotion. Now that the army is defeated, there is no reason for me to cling to life.

You all have parents and families—whether you wish to leave or stay is entirely your own choice; I will not force anyone to remain.

Xiangsheng has only death left, to repay His Majesty. Today I bid farewell to all my brothers!"

With that, Lu Xiangsheng hurled his long saber into the ground, where it stood upright, and from horseback clasped his hands in salute to the Tianxiong Army officers and soldiers on his left and right.

He immediately drew his long saber, spurred his horse, and charged alone toward the hollow square formation.

His officers and men turned pale with shock, shouting in unison: "Your Excellency!"

In moments, someone whipped his horse to catch up, and then the remaining hundred-plus cavalry all gave chase at full gallop.

The remnants charged to close range, shouting battle cries, their warhorses racing at utmost speed.

Instantly a volley of gunfire erupted from the front square, then the two flanking squares also opened fire—three ranks of lead shot converged in the air, dense as a net that leaves no escape, pouring down upon their heads.

In that instant, the hundred-plus cavalry tumbled—men and horses sprawling—and not one rose again.

Meanwhile, Zhang Moye's mounted infantry had already arrived at close range.

The remaining several hundred Tianxiong troops had no strength left to fight. Zhang Moye sent men to call for their surrender, and these remnants finally laid down their arms.

At this time, Lu Xiangjin's twenty-thousand-strong relief force had only just arrived at the southeast of the battlefield.

On an earthen slope, he looked northward and saw that on the vast fertile plain west of the Qinhuai River, beneath Ox Head and General Mountains, crimson red stretched in an unbroken expanse—all fallen Ming soldiers' corpses.

The crow-blue Xia army had formed eight great hollow squares, standing immovable.

Further south, over a thousand scattered crimson Ming soldiers remained, with Xia light cavalry harrying them from behind.

Lu Xiangjin's heart shook violently; tears burst forth uncontrollably, his voice nearly failing entirely as his lips trembled: "Elder brother, I came too late…"

Last night, Lu Xiangsheng's messenger had arrived at the rear army as scheduled. Lu Xiangjin had intended to dispatch troops per his brother's orders, but was stopped by Gao Qiqian.

The Lu brothers did not take Gao Qiqian seriously—such a major operation as moving troops through the night without even informing him had filled Gao Qiqian with extreme displeasure. Thus he intercepted the deployment, firstly to establish his authority.

Secondly, Gao Qiqian feared that if the rear army recklessly joined battle and collapsed, his reputation as one who "understands warfare" would shatter, losing the Emperor's trust.

Whereas if he held his troops in place, he would forever stand in an unassailable position.

If Lu Xiangsheng won, then he had "guarded the rear route and secured the foundation."

If Lu Xiangsheng lost, he could still lead his troops in an orderly retreat south, then impeach Lu Xiangsheng for "reckless battle and loss of the army"—a guaranteed profit with no loss.

Of course, he didn't block them by force—forcible obstruction would be madness, wouldn't it?

First, Gao Qiqian used the pretext of "verifying credentials against the tally and hand seal" to drag the messenger into a side tent for a long, rambling interrogation.

Then, citing "unclear enemy intelligence" and "night marching being a grave taboo," he sent scout riders fifty li ahead to reconnoiter.

Next, he convened a council meeting, imagining every possible scenario that might occur on the march—such as "what if we encounter an ambush" and "what if we lose the grain supplies"—pinning down responsibility at every level.

The rear army numbered fully twenty to thirty thousand men, scattered across various encampments. For the messenger to merely run one circuit took a quarter-hour; adding the time for all commanders to assemble and for everyone to voice opinions at the council, a full two hours was wasted.

Lu Xiangjin was frantic as an ant on a hot pan, yet utterly helpless, because everything Gao Qiqian did was in accordance with military law—he could find not the slightest fault. Moreover, these twenty to thirty thousand men were all Zhejiang troops and guard station soldiers, inherently a heap of loose sand. Lu Xiangjin held little authority among them; without the supervisor's word, he truly could not command them.

When the meeting finally ended, they waited for the scout riders to return to camp and confirm no ambush lay ahead—then Gao Qiqian demanded a muster of troops and horses.

During the muster, he checked waist tablets and rosters unit by unit, inspected crossbows and firearms, and claimed gunpowder supplies were insufficient, requiring emergency replenishment.

Then he said the Folangji cannon and hand culverins were insufficient and they could not go out to battle.

Then he complained the archers' arrow supply was inadequate and ordered it made up.

By the time all this fussing dragged on past midnight, the entire army had still not even left the camp gate. Lu Xiangjin's heart burned like fire, scorching his very entrails. Among the Lu brothers, aside from Lu Xiangsheng who possessed true command talent, the rest were typical literati.

Though Gao Qiqian was a cowardly, greedy, mediocre, and despicable man, he was the Emperor's army supervisor, representing imperial authority. For an external official to seize or threaten a supervisor was no different from open rebellion.

And the Lu brothers were all unbending spines who would rather die than submit. Lu Xiangjin was especially stubborn and upright, valuing rules and regulations above all—he was even less willing to ruin his elder brother's reputation through his own reckless actions.

Thus, even knowing full well Gao Qiqian was deliberately stalling, he would not overturn the table, only repeatedly bowing and pleading.

Seeing this, Gao Qiqian was thoroughly satisfied—the frustration he had swallowed as supervisor these many days was swept clean away—and only then did he order the entire army released.

By this time, four full hours had passed since receiving Lu Xiangsheng's military order.

Lu Xiangjin led his troops in forced marches all the way, hurrying as fast as possible, yet ultimately arriving one step too late.

Standing on the earthen slope, he felt utterly hollowed out, unable to speak a single word for a long time.

When Gao Qiqian heard the scout riders report the news of defeat, he stamped his feet in fury and cursed bitterly: "Lu Xiangsheng was arrogant and willful, with eyes on top of his head—contemptuous of the enemy and rashly advancing, and this defeat is the result! A mediocrity ruining the nation! A mediocrity ruining the nation!"

The young eunuch beside him said: "Godfather, what do we do? The Xia light cavalry will be upon us!"

Gao Qiqian roared: "Our army's fighting spirit is lost—what point is there in staying? Retreat! The entire army retreats!"

"Obeying Godfather's command!" The young eunuch acknowledged and went to relay the order. The entire army then straggled southward in retreat, while the sobbing Lu Xiangjin was carried south by his personal guards.

At this time, Zhang Moye's three thousand mounted infantry were pursuing the fleeing Ming soldiers.

According to mounted infantry training regulations, only when pursuing fleeing enemies would mounted infantry fight on horseback; at all other times they must dismount and fight on foot.

After two days and one night of exertion, both men and horses were exhausted to the extreme, held up entirely by the excitement of a great victory—they had no strength left for further battle. Upon seeing Lu Xiangjin's relief force, Zhang Moye had originally intended to withdraw and return to camp.

Unexpectedly, the Ming army had retreated before he even made his move.

What kind of logic was this?

In nature, whether lions and tigers or jackals and wolves, all know this principle: when paths cross narrowly, one must not turn and flee. Even if outmatched, one should bare fangs and claws to put up a fright.

Seeing this scene, Zhang Moye's spirits rose. He ordered the cavalry to tighten formation and pursue forward—his intent was merely to probe, for after all they had horses; if the Ming army counterattacked, they could simply fall back.

Unexpectedly, the moment they gave chase, the Ming army ran even faster.

When the cavalry drew closer still, the Ming army dared not even form ranks, showing faint signs of imminent collapse.

Though the Ming rear army had departed late, they had been put through no less ordeal—the council meetings and troop musters had all consumed time and energy.

The soldiers had barely slept all night, then under Lu Xiangjin's urging had force-marched thirty li through the night—every man was exhausted and sleepy.

Add to that arriving at the front lines and witnessing the horrific sight of their allies' crushing defeat, their morale took another blow.

And with the two main commanders—one weeping as if dying, the other sprinting away—the entire army was leaderless.

With so many adverse factors stacked together, this rear army—already a heap of loose sand, a motley rabble—had not a single man daring to resist. If you run, I run too. Though they could clearly have beaten Zhang Moye, no one turned to form ranks, and what should have been a retreat was forced into a rout.

Zhang Moye could never have dreamed the situation would develop this way. He immediately ordered the entire army to pursue.

On General Mountain, Lei Sanxiang raised his telescope and looked south, seeing Zhang Moye's three thousand cavalry vanish southward in a puff of dust.

Earlier, scout riders had reported the Ming relief force had arrived to the south. For Zhang Moye to chase after them without a care was far too reckless.

His men were all a weary, exhausted force—if they fell into an ambush, nine times out of ten the entire army would be wiped out.

Lei Sanxiang cursed inwardly: "Damn it! That boy's lost his head from fighting!"

Even as he cursed, he still said, "Pass the order: tell Zhang Moye not to pursue too fiercely! And send the remaining thousand horse-infantry to support him."

"Yes, sir!" The messenger flew down the mountain.

Ma Bingjie had been leading his soldiers in cleaning up the battlefield. Upon receiving the order, he immediately rallied his troops, sprinted to the horses, mounted, and gave chase southward. Men and horses alike were exhausted to the point of vomiting blood, but military orders were as heavy as mountains—they could only obey.

On the other side, Zhang Moye's cavalry had already charged to within close range of the Ming army. Every man had drawn his blade, the sword tips angled forward, gleaming coldly under the noonday sun—a formation radiating murderous intent.

The next moment, the cavalry slammed violently into the Ming ranks.

Zhang Moye saw his moment, dropped his shoulder, sank his elbow, and swung his blade.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw only a full, cold silver arc sweep past—clean and fluid in its curve, the blade cutting through the air with a low whistle.

The curved blade sliced down diagonally with the momentum of the horse, carrying a smooth sensation of penetration. The edge seemed to glide along the arc into flesh, force spreading from a point into a line, the vibration so light that only a faint tingling numbness reached his fingers.

The fleeing Ming soldier's clothing and flesh parted cleanly along the curved edge. A spray of blood arced sideways, drawing a long, narrow curtain of crimson. He let out a miserable scream, arched his back, and collapsed to the ground.

Before Zhang Moye could savor the exquisite feel, he saw new enemies and struck out again and again. The blade slid through foes like wind brushing a lake's surface—utterly without resistance.

The guards beside him struck even faster than he did, killing with terrifying efficiency. Everywhere they passed, nothing but bursts of blood mist.

Their sabers were specially made—based on the wild goose feather blade, the curvature of the sword body had been increased, the whole thing shaped like a crescent moon.

This blade sacrificed infantry combat capability, designed purely for mounted slashing, and indeed its effectiveness was outstanding.

Unfortunately, Foye was now busy making guns, cannons, and steel all at once—production capacity was simply insufficient. These new-style sabers were only issued to a few officers and personal guards. The ordinary horse-infantry still used wild goose feather blades.

Even so, against the tide of the collapsing Ming army, it hardly mattered what blade the cavalry used. Wherever the horses' hooves trod, corpses lay strewn along the road—the killing efficiency far surpassing volley fire or artillery, truly horrifying.

Zhang Moye pursued a full ten li in one breath. His arms ached unbearably, his hands were too slick to grip the saber, and half his body was soaked through with blood.

"General, ahead is Moling Pass!" a subordinate shouted.

Zhang Moye looked up. Beyond the vast reed marshes and polder fields rose a city wall that seemed to spring from the earth—two zhang high, faced with green brick, with four gates opening to the east, west, south, and north, and the Qinhuai River diverted to form its moat.

Though called a pass, it was in truth a small city.

This city stood forty or fifty li from Nanjing, originally the southern throat guarding the capital—a strategic location of great importance.

Unexpectedly, when Daxia had come up the Yangtze, this pass had become a decoration. Now it had degenerated into a shelter for routed troops.

At this moment, Moling Pass's gates were tightly shut, and the defenders on the walls peeked out from behind the crenellations.

Over a thousand Ming remnants had gathered before the city gate, all weeping and shouting for the gates to open—but open they would not.

Zhang Moye reined in his horse and looked around. Every soldier under his command was stained with blood, their crow-blue uniforms dyed half blue, half red—a savage and ferocious sight.

Looking more closely, the warhorses were foaming at the mouth and heaving for breath. The men's hands and feet trembled as they swayed unsteadily in their saddles—they were completely spent, arrows at the end of their flight.

In this state, engaging the enemy again was out of the question. Moreover, with the horse-infantry's equipment, they had no capacity for siege warfare—even against a small city held by barely a hundred Ming soldiers.

By all logic, the horse-infantry should have withdrawn. But Zhang Moye had a flash of inspiration and whispered a few words to the guards beside him.

One guard with a loud voice rode to the foot of the wall and shouted, "Governor-General Lu Xiangsheng is dead! Nanjing has fallen! Open the gates now, and you may yet escape death! Surrender at once!"

Atop the wall, the Garrison Commander of Moling Pass secretly poked his head out. First he looked at the miserable Ming soldiers below, crying for their fathers and mothers, then at the Daxia horse-infantry who looked as if they had swum out of a sea of blood—and he was completely convinced by the shouting.

Nanjing had fallen, the Governor-General was dead, and Jiangnan had no more soldiers fit to fight. If not surrendering now, what were they waiting for? Death?

So he called out repeatedly, "We surrender! So long as we may live, we are willing to surrender!"

With that, he urged his men to open the gates.

The thousand remnants outside the walls, the hundred Ming soldiers inside, and the entire city of Moling Pass—all became Zhang Moye's prisoners.

Zhang Moye split off troops to hold the city walls. It was only as the main force headed north back to camp that they met Ma Bingjie's unit head-on.

After receiving Lei Sanxiang's order, he had hurried along the whole way, but the warhorses were nearly dead from exhaustion—how could they run fast? In the end, he never caught up. Seeing Zhang Moye's haul, Ma Bingjie slapped his thigh in frustration.

The two cavalry forces joined and camped together. The horse-infantry's mounts had reached their limit—over a hundred horses collapsed and died in succession, and the veterinary officer sighed with heartache.

Zhang Moye ordered all troops to dismount and tend to their warhorses.

Every step was carried out personally by the horse-infantry, with the chief veterinarian supervising and instructing from the side.

"Hey! You there, soldier! Don't you stop—lead the horse for a walk! Then remove the saddle and wipe off the sweat!"

This place was near the Qinhuai River. After walking the horses, removing saddles, and wiping them down, the chief veterinarian urged everyone to lead their mounts to the river to drink.

While the horses drank, the veterinarians and chief veterinarians of each battalion patrolled nearby. Whoever made a mistake was loudly scolded in an official dialect with a Liaodong accent. "I don't care how you people drink, but the horses are not allowed to gulp down water frantically! Where are the water ladles I gave you? Scoop it up with the ladle, only three to five mouthfuls at a time—and after drinking, let the horse lick a salt block!"

"Horse Chief, where are the salt blocks?"

"You son of a—... In the saddlebag on the right rear!" The chief veterinarian barely held back his temper.

After tending to the horses for an hour, the riders also took the chance to eat their dry rations. Then they re-saddled, led their horses by hand, and headed north back to camp.

Along the way—through fields, over hills and open country, along official roads and dirt paths—Ming corpses lay everywhere. Not densely packed, but scattered all about, stretching nearly twenty li. The bodies were too numerous to count, a sight that shocked the eye.

Yahei

Pink Round

Pen