Chapter 205: River Network Lightning War

Jiankang, Longwan Ferry.

On the seventh day of the first lunar month, before dawn, the river fog was so thick you couldn’t see across the water. The garrison soldiers at the ferry, wrapped in tattered cotton-padded coats, crouched behind sandbag fortifications, yawning endlessly. This was the outer river defense of Jiankang, manned by an understrength water command of the Palace Guard, plus a ragtag “River Defense Reserve Battalion” formed from Kuibing fleeing from the Two Huai regions—fewer than fifteen hundred men total. The commander responsible for this stretch was Cao An, an old veteran under Xia Zhen who had lost an ear at Lingbi. Cao An had spent his life defending cities; he knew nothing of river warfare. But his superiors assured him the Jiangnan rebels were nothing but muddy-footed mountain peasants who had emerged from the hills southwest of Jiankang—even if they had boats, they were only fishing vessels and bamboo rafts, no match for the Song Empire’s official warships. Cao An believed it. His men believed it too. So when strange sounds emerged from deep in the fog, the sentry’s first thought wasn’t enemy attack—it was “Which river guild is running boats at midnight?”

The sound wasn’t from oars or paddles. It was a low, rhythmic thudding, like someone drumming beneath the river’s surface. The sentry raised his torch and leaned out from the fortification to scan the river—but the fog was too thick to see anything. He listened for a moment, then shouted back toward the sentry hut: “Boss, come out and listen—what’s that noise—” He never finished. Suddenly, a line of fire flashed from deep in the fog—not torches, but muzzle flashes. Dozens of mortar shells erupted from the mist, screaming as they slammed into the beachhead fortifications. The blast waves overturned sandbags and hurled soil from the sacks into the air. The sentry was thrown more than three meters back, his back crashing into the wooden post of the sentry hut, his mouth filled with blood. His last thought was that the thudding grew louder, denser, like a hundred drums beating simultaneously on the river’s surface. Then he saw the ships emerging from the fog—not fishing boats, not bamboo rafts, but iron-hulled steam tugs, each belching thick white smoke, steel plates welded along their hulls, light machine guns mounted on their bows. Behind them stretched long lines of barges, each crammed with infantry, steel helmets glinting coldly in the morning light.

The Jiangnan Army’s Water-Land Transport First Echelon—twenty steam tugs and sixty barges—secretly set sail from Dangtu on the morning of the seventh day of the first lunar month, drifting downstream, reaching Jiankang’s riverfront in just over an hour. This speed was impossible for any traditional navy relying on sails and oars—winter winds on the Yangtze blew northward, forcing ships to be pulled upstream by haulers; from Dangtu to Jiankang against the wind would take at least a full day. But steam tugs didn’t care about wind direction—their propellers rotated at fixed speed beneath the water, each tug pulling three barges, each barge carrying one hundred fifty fully armed infantry and two mortars, leaving straight white trails across the river’s center.

Longwan Ferry was fully suppressed in less than half an hour. The defenders on the beachhead never mounted any meaningful resistance—the first mortar salvo blew the command post to rubble, the second destroyed the stockpiled arrows and oil jars on the dock, the third created a wall of fire along the defenders’ retreat route, cutting off their escape to Jiankang. Before the infantry even landed, the surviving defenders had thrown down their weapons and knelt in the mud, hands raised. From the first shell landing to the ferry’s capture, the entire operation took less than fifteen minutes. Jiangnan Army casualties: zero.

Meanwhile, the same scene unfolded simultaneously at more than a dozen ferry points along the southern bank of the Yangtze.

This was the Jiangnan Base’s “River Network Lightning War”—a new form of warfare built on steam-powered inland navigation, dual wireless and wired communication, and pre-infiltration reconnaissance. It was not the traditional “advance along the river, besiege city by city,” but instead exploited the region’s dense waterways, using steam tugs as mobile platforms to simultaneously deploy tens of thousands of troops across more than a dozen ferry points like a vast net. Each ferry point had been meticulously reconnoitered in advance—Zhi Geng Society underground agents had infiltrated the river transport systems of every prefecture along the river over the past two years, posing as boatmen, haulers, and dock laborers, mapping precise hydrographic and military data down to every shoal, reef, ferry, and guard shift change. These intelligence reports converged at the General Staff, where Nie Huaishang himself finalized the timing and routes for each assault group. Jiankang, Zhenjiang, Chizhou, Wuhu, Tongling—all these ferry points were attacked simultaneously, spaced tens to over a hundred li apart, so that no messenger from any one point could possibly reach allies before the next fell. The Song Army’s river defense was a traditional network of points linked into lines, then into a surface—its logic: if one point is attacked, neighboring sectors rush to reinforce. But that logic assumed reinforcements could arrive faster than the enemy—and the Song Army’s fastest transport was the horse.

When Jiankang’s commander Xia Zhen was awakened by the artillery fire in his office, his first reaction wasn’t to send reinforcements to Longwan—he asked: “How many ships are on the river?” His staff couldn’t answer. The fleeing soldiers gave conflicting numbers—some said ten, some fifty, some said the entire river was filled. Xia Zhen donned his armor and climbed the western city wall, peering through his telescope at the river. The morning fog was lifting, revealing a sight he would never forget: dozens of black iron ships belching white smoke crisscrossed the Yangtze, barges shuttling between the river center and shore, unloading troops, then turning back to retrieve the next wave. The entire process unfolded with orderly precision, like a vast assembly line. The Yangtze outside Jiankang had become the Jiangnan Army’s high-speed supply line and maneuver corridor. Xia Zhen lowered his telescope and said to his staff, his voice devoid of fear, only late clarity: “This isn’t warfare. This is relocation. They’ve moved their entire base here.”

In the Zhenjiang direction, the Jiangnan Army’s Water-Land Transport Second Echelon—fifteen steam tugs and forty-five barges—arrived at Zhenjiang’s riverfront the same evening. Zhenjiang’s commander was Zhao Chun—former deputy commander of the northern expedition’s central force, who after the Dengzhou siege was exiled to Zhenjiang as a powerless prefect under Shi Miyuan’s purge. He was far more Qingxing than Xia Zhen, and far more pessimistic. Zhao Chun immediately assessed: “They’re not here to take the city—they’re here to lock the river. They’re severing the connection between Jiankang and Zhenjiang, forcing each city to fight alone, then picking them off one by one.” He ordered beacon fires lit on the walls and dispatched three messenger teams by land and water to seek aid from Lin’an. None reached Lin’an. The first group, traveling by river, was intercepted and captured by Jiangnan Army armed steam tugs in mid-river. The second, traveling by land, was ambushed south of Jurong by reconnaissance units already embedded there; their captain, captured with Zhao Chun’s personal letter to Shi Miyuan still in his pocket. The third, disguised in civilian clothes and taking back roads, evaded two checkpoints, but was recognized by Zhi Geng Society agents near the canal north of Huzhou and delivered straight to the base’s temporary command post. Zhao Chun waited all night on Zhenjiang’s walls—what arrived were Jiangnan Army leaflets, launched by mortar shells into the city: the full text of the “Proclamation Against the Song,” plus a new line: “Zhao Chun, you besieged Wanyan Kuang in Dengzhou for two months—then the court gave Dengzhou to the Jin. Who are you fighting for, still unclear?”

Jiankang and Zhenjiang were separated by no more than a hundred li, divided by the southern ridges of Mount Mao and a spiderweb of tributaries. The Jiangnan Army’s third penetration force departed from Dangtu, using local inland steam tugs to sail north along the canal, while light infantry marched over Mount Mao from the west. Their mission was not to capture any city, but to establish blocking positions along every road, ferry, bridge, and post station between Jiankang and Zhenjiang—like a comb, severing all lines of communication. Each company in the penetration force was equipped with at least one light machine gun and one light mortar, firepower far exceeding any equivalent Song unit. A Song infantry command retreating from Jiankang attempted to cross at Jurong Ferry—only to find it already occupied by Jiangnan infantry, sandbags piled on both sides of the bridge, at least three light machine guns behind them. The Song troops charged twice, left over fifty corpses, then broke and fled. Another messenger unit from Zhenjiang tried to bypass the blockade via mountain trails—only to have their captain shot by pre-positioned snipers on the Mao Mountain path; the rest scattered. Within two days, communication between Jiankang and Zhenjiang was shattered into fragments. The two cities fought alone, unaware of each other’s fate.

As the battle shifted to siege and assault, the Jiangnan Army unveiled another tactic: psychological warfare to break enemy morale.

On the second morning of Jiankang’s siege, Song soldiers on the ramparts saw something they’d never seen before—not battering rams, not scaling ladders, not trebuchets. Leaflets. Mortars launched bundles of leaflets into the city; they exploded midair, snowing down onto streets, rooftops, and barracks courtyards. The text was large, legible even to the illiterate. The content wasn’t threats—it was accounting. “Fifty thousand taels of silver and fifty thousand bolts of silk in annual tribute—how much did the court extract from each of you?” “Tangzhou and Dengzhou ceded to the Jin—your comrades besieged Dengzhou for two months—for whom?” “The Yangtze waterway opened to the Jin army—your boats seized to carry their grain—did you ever receive a single coin?” “On the day Han Tuozhou’s head was delivered to Zhongdu, Lin’an teahouses chatted of romance—whose toes froze on the front lines?”

The defenders inside Jiankang were mostly locals, many of whom came from villages just beyond the Jiangnan Base’s perimeter. They’d all heard whispers of cooperatives, literacy classes, land redistribution. A wounded soldier released after capture said the Base made Jin prisoners work at the docks, fed them three full meals a day with meat, and paid them wages at month’s end. The story spread through the barracks—no one believed the official lies about “bandits who slaughter without mercy” anymore.

On the fourth day of the siege, the Qingjun infantry battalion at Jiankang’s southern gate mutinied. The trigger: Xia Zhen ordered the demolition of civilian homes to reinforce the walls—and he tore down the ancestral home of one Qingjun soldier. The soldier’s father knelt outside the barracks gate weeping; the gate guards beat him. The soldiers first surrounded the guards, then refused drill, then piled all their weapons on the parade ground, opened the gate, and sent a brave man across to shout: “Don’t shell us—we’re defecting!”

When the political commissar arrived at the Qingjun barracks with an instructor, over two hundred Qingjun soldiers stood in formation on the parade ground, their weapons neatly stacked on the ground. The commissar wasted no words: “Those who wish to return home will be given travel funds and dismissed immediately. Those who wish to stay will join the People’s Armed Forces—same food, same pay, from today.” He added: “If you want land, wait until the war ends—return to your hometowns. Jiangnan Base rules: three mu per person, fifteen mu per family of five. No rent, no extra taxes. Cooperatives will farm for you, Weisheng Academy will treat your illnesses, literacy classes will teach your children.” The two hundred soldiers looked at each other. Then the first stepped forward, standing behind the commissar. Then the second. Then the third. By evening, all two hundred had stayed. Xia Zhen watched from the city wall, silent for a long time. He didn’t send troops to suppress them—not because he didn’t want to, but because he had no reliable forces left. His personal guard told him: soldiers at the northern gate were whispering in their barracks: “The southern gate brothers have crossed over—they say they get three full meals a day with meat.” Xia Zhen gripped the hilt of his sword, knuckles white. He didn’t draw it. He was deputy commander of the Palace Guard, Shi Miyuan’s confidant, the man who personally arranged Han Tuozhou’s assassination outside Yongjin Gate. He knew better than anyone what this city was built upon. Its foundation wasn’t stone—it was the people’s hearts. And the hearts were gone.

The collapse of the southern Song forces didn’t begin with breached walls—it began with the soldiers’ collective awakening. The political program of the Jiangnan Base’s proclamation, combined with the military crushing of the “River Network Lightning War,” shattered within days every pillar sustaining Song army morale—the legitimacy of the court, the authority of commanders, soldiers’ loyalty, the stability of the rear—all collapsing. And the Jiangnan Army didn’t just offer a proclamation—it offered a tangible, visible, touchable new life. For the dock laborers of Jiankang, the bent-over female dyers of Shaoxing, the boatmen conscripted to haul Jin grain on the Huai River, the frostbitten soldiers at Dengzhou—this wasn’t propaganda. It was justice.

On the tenth day of the first lunar month, Jiankang fell—not breached by artillery, but opened from within by its own southern gate defenders. Xia Zhen fled with a few personal guards through the northern gate, was caught by steam tanks, and captured by the river. When he was brought before the drum tower in Jiankang’s center, he saw the soldiers who had once charged with him at Lingbi, besieged him at Suzhou, and had their proclamations seized from them in Zhenjiang’s barracks—now standing in line along the street, receiving hot porridge. The porridge was cooked by Jiangnan Army cooks, thick enough to stand chopsticks upright. The woman serving it was young, her short hair visible beneath her cap, her uniform faded, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She ladled quickly and evenly, each bowl filled to the brim. Someone asked where she was from. She didn’t look up: “I used to carry sacks at Jiankang’s docks.” Xia Zhen stood there, watching for a long time. Then he bowed his head.

After Jiankang and Zhenjiang fell, no organized Song defense remained between the Yangtze and Lake Tai. The Jiangnan Army’s water-land transport units continued south along the canal—garrisons in Suzhou, Huzhou, and other canal towns surrendered without a fight. On the eastern shore of Lake Tai, a Jiangnan Army vanguard unit encountered the Song imperial army’s last mobile force, dispatched from Lin’an by Shi Miyuan and commanded by a General Qian—claimed to be twenty thousand, actually fewer than eight thousand. They collided with Jiangnan Army steam tug formations north of Huzhou along the canal. The battle lasted one afternoon. The Song cavalry was pinned down in reed marshes east of the canal by heavy machine guns; the infantry scattered along the rice field ridges under mortar fire. General Qian, retreating, was shoved from his horse by fleeing soldiers, broke his leg, and was trampled to death in the mud by his own men. This was the Song Army’s last organized counterattack in the Jiangnan water network. Afterward, the entire canal route from Zhenjiang to Hangzhou was under Jiangnan Army control. Shi Miyuan received surrender letters from the governors of Suzhou and Huzhou—both delivered to the Ministry of State Affairs at nearly the same moment. He sat behind his desk, neither angry nor shouting, only slowly stacking the two letters beneath his paperweight, saying: “They’re not surrendering. They’re going home. These places have long been theirs.”

At Piaoquan by Qianshan, the sixty-two-year-old Xin Qiji stood armored before Tian Hu, leaning on his iron spear, its tip no longer gleaming as brightly as before, but his grip still clenched tight, steady as a rock. He said: “I’m going to Jiankang.” Tian Hu knelt, clutching Xin Qiji’s leg, tears streaming: “You’re sixty-two! Your leg wound still aches in damp weather—how will you go?”

Xin Qiji looked down at him, silent for a long time, then drove his iron spear into the ground. The iron butt spike struck the frozen earth, shaking frost from the soil. His voice was hoarse, stubborn: “Then walk slowly. One day at a time. If I can’t walk, carry me. If you can’t carry me, I’ll crawl.” He gazed toward the northern horizon, where the red banner he had waited forty years for flew. He knew that army didn’t need a sixty-two-year-old general to charge into battle—but he still had to go. Not to fight, but to see. Forty-three years ago, he led fifty cavalry into a Jin camp of fifty thousand, captured Zhang Anguo, and returned south—he thought the Song would launch a northern expedition, that the Central Plains would be restored. Forty-three years later, the court had buried his strategies under boxes, exiled him from Jiankang to Jiangxi, from Jiangxi to Qianshan, turned general into peasant. Now someone else had fought for him—he had to see. Just one look. The most lucid military mind of the age, the most tragic observer of this tragedy, took his first step toward Jiankang at life’s end.