Chapter 205: River Network Blitzkrieg

Jiankang, Longwan Ferry.

On the seventh day of the first lunar month, before dawn, the river fog was so thick one could not see a person opposite. The ferry's garrison, wrapped in tattered cotton jackets, squatted behind sandbag fortifications, yawning incessantly. This was the outer river defense of Jiankang City, garrisoned by an under-strength naval command of the Dianqian Si, plus a "River Defense Garrison" cobbled together from routed soldiers retreating from the Two Huai regions, totaling no more than fifteen hundred men. The commander responsible for this stretch of river defense was Cao An, an old military veteran under Xia Zhen, who had lost an ear beneath the walls of Lingbi. The hardest battle Cao An had ever fought was defending a city; he knew nothing of naval warfare. But his superiors had said that the Jiangnan rebels were all mud-legs from the mountains, emerging from the southwest mountainous areas of Jiankang; even if they had boats, they were merely fishing boats and bamboo rafts, unable to collide with the warships built by the Great Song. Cao An believed it, and his soldiers believed it too. So when a strange sound came from the depths of the river fog, the sentry's first reaction was not an enemy attack, but "which grain transport gang is running boats in the middle of the night."

That sound was not the sound of oars, nor of sculls. It was a low, rhythmic thumping, like someone beating a drum beneath the river surface. The sentry held a torch, leaned out of the fortification, and shone it onto the river; the fog was too thick, revealing nothing. He listened intently for a moment, then turned back and shouted into the sentry hut, "Boss, come out and listen, what is that noise—" He did not finish. Suddenly, a row of fire flashed from the depths of the river fog—not torches, but muzzle flashes. More than a dozen mortar shells simultaneously emerged from the fog, whistling sharply as they crashed onto the beachhead fortifications. The blast wave of the explosions overturned the sandbags, sending the sand and soil from the bags flying everywhere. The sentry was blown more than ten feet away by the shockwave, his back slamming against the wooden pillar of the sentry hut, his mouth full of the taste of blood. In his final consciousness, that thumping sound grew closer and denser, like a hundred drums beating simultaneously on the river surface. Then he saw those ships charging out of the fog—not fishing boats, not bamboo rafts, but iron-hulled steam tugs, each billowing thick white smoke, with steel plates welded to both sides of the hulls, and light machine guns mounted on the bows. Trailing behind them were long lines of barges, densely packed with infantry standing on the barges, their steel helmets gleaming with cold light in the dawn.

The twenty steam tugs and sixty barges of the first echelon of the Jiangnan Army Group's water-land combined transport secretly set sail from Dangtu on the early morning of the seventh day of the first lunar month, traveling down the river, reaching the Jiankang river surface in just over one double-hour. This speed was unattainable by any traditional navy relying on sails and oars—in winter, the Yangtze blows north winds; sailing against the wind requires pullers, and the journey from Dangtu to Jiankang against the wind would take at least a full day. But steam tugs did not care about wind direction; their propellers rotated at a fixed speed beneath the river water. Each tug towed three barges, fully loaded with one hundred and fifty fully armed infantrymen and two mortars, drawing straight white trails in the center of the river.

Longwan Ferry was completely suppressed in less than half a double-hour. The garrison at the beachhead fortifications did not even organize a decent resistance—the first volley of mortars blew the ferry's command sentry hut into fragments; the second volley destroyed the arrows and oil jars stockpiled on the dock; the third volley exploded a wall of fire along the route of the retreating garrison, blocking their escape path back to Jiankang City. Before the infantry even landed, the remaining garrison had thrown down their weapons and knelt on the muddy beach, raising their hands high. From the first mortar shell landing to the ferry changing hands, the entire process took less than two quarter-hours. The Jiangnan Army Group suffered zero casualties.

At the same time, the same scene played out simultaneously at more than a dozen ferries along the southern bank of the Yangtze.

This was the Jiangnan Base Area's "River Network Blitzkrieg"—a completely new mode of warfare built upon steam-powered inland waterway transport, dual-track wireless and wired communications, and pre-emptive infiltration and reconnaissance. It was not the traditional "advance along the river, besiege city by city," but rather utilized the terrain characteristics of the densely watered Jiangnan network, using steam tugs as mobile platforms to cast tens of thousands of troops like a net simultaneously onto more than a dozen ferries. Every ferry had been repeatedly reconnoitered and marked in advance—the underground party members of the Robin Society had infiltrated the water transport systems of the various prefectures along the river over the past two years, posing as boatmen, pullers, and dock coolies, mapping hydrological military maps precise down to every shallow, reef, ferry, and guard shift time. These intelligence reports were gathered by the General Staff, and then Nie Huaishang himself participated in finally determining the landing times and routes for each assault group. Jiankang, Zhenjiang, Chizhou, Wuhu, Tongling—these ferries were attacked in the same double-hour, separated from each other by tens to over a hundred li; the messenger from any one ferry seeking reinforcements would not have time to deliver the message to friendly forces. The Song army's river defense system was a traditional defensive network extending from points to lines, and from lines to areas; its logic was: if one place is attacked, neighboring defense areas rush to aid. But the premise of this logic was that the rushing aid forces could arrive faster than the enemy, and the Song army's fastest transportation was horses.

When Jiankang's defending general Xia Zhen was awakened by the cannon fire in his official office, his first reaction was not to send troops to reinforce Longwan, but to ask a single question: "How many ships are on the river?" The advisors could not answer. Because the numbers given by the routed soldiers delivering the report contradicted each other—some said ten, some said fifty, some said the whole river was full. Xia Zhen donned his armor and ascended the west gate tower of Jiankang, looking out at the river surface through a telescope. The morning fog was dissipating, and he saw a sight he would never forget for the rest of his life: on the Yangtze river surface, dozens of black iron ships billowing white smoke were shuttling back and forth; barges moved from the center of the river to the shore, unloaded troops, then turned back to the center of the river to continue towing the next batch. The entire process was orderly, like a massive assembly line. The Yangtze outside Jiankang City had already become the Jiangnan Army Group's high-speed supply line and mobility corridor. Xia Zhen lowered the telescope and said a sentence to the advisors behind him, his tone devoid of fear, containing only a belated clarity: "This is not war. This is moving house. They have moved their entire base area over here."

In the direction of Zhenjiang, the fifteen steam tugs and forty-five barges of the second echelon of the Jiangnan Army Group's water-land combined transport arrived at the river surface opposite Zhenjiang on the evening of the same day. Zhenjiang's defending general was Zhao Chun—the former deputy commander of the central army during the Northern Expedition, who, after the siege of Dengzhou was lifted, was sidelined by Shi Miyuan's purge and sent to Zhenjiang to serve as a Prefect with no real power. He was far more clear-headed, and far more pessimistic, than Xia Zhen. Zhao Chun made his judgment almost immediately: "They are not here to besiege the city; they are here to lock the river. They are cutting off the river connection between Jiankang and Zhenjiang, forcing the two cities to fight alone, and then eating them one by one." He ordered the beacon fires on the city walls to be lit and dispatched three batches of messengers via land and water routes to seek reinforcements from Lin'an. None of the three batches reached Lin'an. The first batch, traveling by river, was intercepted in the center of the river by the Jiangnan Army Group's armed steam tugs; both men and boats were captured. The second batch, traveling by land, was ambushed and intercepted on the mountain road south of Jurong by a reconnaissance detachment that had already infiltrated the area; the squad leader was captured while still carrying a personal letter from Zhao Chun to Shi Miyuan. The third batch changed into civilian clothes and took small paths, bypassing two blockades, but was identified by Robin Society underground members on the canal north of Huzhou and directly handed over to the temporary headquarters of the base area. Zhao Chun waited on the Zhenjiang city walls all night, only to receive leaflets from the Jiangnan Army Group—propaganda shells fired by mortars into the city, the leaflets printing the full text of the "Edict Against the Song," plus a newly added line: "Zhao Chun, you besieged Wanyan Kuang at Dengzhou for two months, and in the end the court ceded Dengzhou to the Jin people. For whom are you fighting? Have you not figured it out yet?"

The distance between Jiankang and Zhenjiang was no more than a hundred li, separated by the remnants of the Maoshan Mountains and a web of river channels as dense as a spider's web. The third flanking force of the Jiangnan Army Group departed from Dangtu, moving north along the canal using local Jiangnan inland steam tugs, simultaneously supplemented by light infantry hiking over the Maoshan Mountains, advancing from east and west. Their mission was not to capture any city, but to establish blocking positions on all official roads, ferries, bridges, and relay stations between Jiankang and Zhenjiang, cutting off all transportation lines like a comb. Each company of the flanking force was equipped with at least one light machine gun and one light mortar, with firepower far exceeding any Song army unit of similar size. A Song army infantry command retreating from Jiankang attempted to cross the river at Jurong Ferry, only to find the ferry already occupied by Jiangnan Army Group infantry; sandbags were piled on both sides of the bridgehead, with at least three light machine guns behind the sandbags. The Song army charged twice, leaving more than fifty corpses behind, and scattered. Another messenger team departing from Zhenjiang attempted to bypass the blockade via small paths; on the Maoshan mountain road, the squad leader was taken out by a sniper who had set an ambush in advance, and the rest scattered in panic. Within two days, the transportation link between Jiankang and Zhenjiang was cut into fragments. The two cities fought alone, each unaware whether the other was alive or dead.

After the battle turned into a siege and assault, the Jiangnan Army Group began to demonstrate another tactic: using propaganda to disintegrate the defending army.

On the second morning of the siege of Jiankang, the Song soldiers defending the city saw a sight never before seen on the battlements—not a battering ram, not a siege ladder, not a trebuchet. It was leaflets. Mortars fired bundles of leaflets into the city; the leaflets exploded in mid-air, falling like snowflakes onto the streets, rooftops, and military camp courtyards. The characters printed on the leaflets were large enough that even illiterate people could ask someone to read them. The content was not intimidation, but an accounting. "Fifty thousand taels of silver and fifty thousand bolts of silk in annual tribute; how much did the court scrape from each of your heads?" "Dengzhou and Tangzhou ceded to the Jin people; your comrades besieged Dengzhou for two months, for whom did you fight?" "The Yangtze water transport opened to the Jin army; your boats were conscripted to transport grain for the Jin people; did you ever receive a single coin of wages?" "The day Han Tuozhou's head was delivered to Zhongdu, the teahouses in Lin'an were talking about romance; your toes froze on the front line, whose toes were they?"

The garrison inside Jiankang City were all locals; many of their hometowns were in the peripheral control areas of the Jiangnan Base Area. They had heard more or less about cooperatives, literacy classes, and the distribution of fields and land. A wounded soldier released after being captured said that in the base area, Jin prisoners were taken to the docks to work, receiving three meals of dry rice a day with meat, and wages at the end of the month. After this news spread through the military camp, no one believed the official narrative of "demonic rebels who kill without blinking" anymore.

On the fourth day of the siege, a mutiny broke out in the conscript infantry camp at the south gate of Jiankang City. The cause of the mutiny was Xia Zhen's order to demolish civilian houses to reinforce the city defenses; the demolition reached the ancestral home of a conscript soldier. That soldier's father knelt at the camp gate crying and was beaten by the gate guards. The soldiers first surrounded the guards, then refused to drill, then the entire camp piled their swords and spears in the courtyard, pushed open the city gate, and sent a brave man to the opposite position to shout, "Don't fire! We are here to surrender!"

When the Political Commissar entered the conscript camp with an instructor, more than two hundred conscript soldiers stood in formation on the courtyard, their swords and spears neatly stacked on the ground. The Political Commissar spoke no nonsense; his first words were: "Those who wish to go home will be given travel expenses and discharged on the spot. Those who wish to stay will be enrolled in the People's Armed Forces; from today on, you will eat the same food and receive the same pay." The Political Commissar added another sentence: "Those who wish to divide land, wait until the war is over, then return to your hometown to divide it. The rules of the Jiangnan Base Area are three mu per person; a family of five gets fifteen mu. No land rent, no oppressive taxes and fees. Cooperatives will help you farm, hospitals will treat your illnesses, and literacy classes will educate your children." The two hundred-plus conscript soldiers looked at each other. Then the first person stepped out and stood behind the Political Commissar. Then the second, then the third. By evening, all two hundred-plus had stayed. Xia Zhen watched the direction of the south gate from the city tower, silent for a long time. He did not send anyone to suppress it—not because he didn't want to, but because he had no reliable troops left. His personal guard told him that the garrison at the north gate was also starting to whisper in the barracks, saying, "The brothers at the south gate have already crossed over; we heard they get three meals of dry rice a day with meat." Xia Zhen pressed his hand on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white. The sword was not drawn. He was the Deputy Commander of the Dianqian Si, a confidant of Shi Miyuan, the man who personally arranged the assassination of Han Tuozhou outside Yongjin Gate. He knew better than anyone what kind of foundation the city he was defending was built upon. The foundation was not stone; it was the people's hearts. The people's hearts were already gone.

The collapse of the Song army on the southern front did not begin with the breach of the city walls; it began with the awakening of the collective consciousness of the soldiers. The political program proposed in the Jiangnan Base Area's Edict Against the Song, combined with the military crushing power of the "River Network Blitzkrieg," disintegrated all the pillars upon which the Song army maintained morale in an extremely short time—the legitimacy of the court, the authority of the generals, the loyalty of the soldiers, and the stability of the rear; every single one was failing. And what the Jiangnan Army Group offered was not just an edict, but a concrete, visible, and tangible new life. For the coolies carrying loads at the Jiankang docks, the female workers with bent backs in the dye houses of Shaoxing, the boatmen conscripted to transport grain for the Jin people by the Huaihe River, and the wounded soldiers whose toes froze off beneath the walls of Dengzhou, this was not propaganda; it was immediate retribution in this life.

On the tenth day of the first lunar month, Jiankang City fell. It was not blasted open by cannons; it was opened by the garrison at the south gate themselves. When the city fell, Xia Zhen broke out through the north gate with a few close attendants, was caught up by a steam tank, and captured by the riverside. When he was escorted before the Drum Tower in the center of Jiankang City, he saw those soldiers who had once charged with him beneath the walls of Lingbi, besieged beneath the walls of Suzhou, and had their edicts confiscated by him in the barracks at Zhenjiang, lining up on the street to receive hot porridge. The porridge was cooked by the Jiangnan Army Group's kitchen squad, thick enough that a chopstick could stand upright in it. The one distributing the porridge was a female soldier, not old, with short hair reaching her ears visible beneath her cap brim; her military uniform was washed white, and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. Her motion of ladling the porridge was fast and even, filling every bowl to the rim. Someone asked where she was from; without looking up, she answered, "A coolie carrying loads at the Jiankang docks." Xia Zhen stood there, watching for a long time. Then he lowered his head.

After the fall of Jiankang and Zhenjiang, there were no more organized Song army defense lines between the Yangtze and Taihu Lake. The water-land combined transport forces of the Jiangnan Army Group continued south along the canal; the garrisons of towns along the canal such as Suzhou and Huzhou surrendered almost upon seeing the wind. On the eastern shore of Taihu Lake, a vanguard detachment of the Jiangnan Army Group encountered the Song imperial guard troops departing from Hangzhou and moving north. The imperial guard was the last mobile force pieced together by Shi Miyuan from Lin'an, led by a Commander-in-Chief surnamed Qian, boasting twenty thousand men but actually numbering less than eight thousand. They collided with the steam tug fleet of the Jiangnan Army Group on the canal north of Huzhou; the battle lasted an entire afternoon. The imperial guard's cavalry was pinned down by heavy machine guns in the reed marshes on the east bank of the canal; the infantry was scattered by mortars on the Tian Geng. Commander-in-Chief Qian was pushed off his horse by retreating soldiers during the rout, broke his leg, and was trampled to death by his own men in the muddy beach by the canal. This was the last large-scale counterattack organized by the Song army in the water-networked areas of Jiangnan. After this, the entire canal passage from Zhenjiang to Hangzhou was controlled by the Jiangnan Army Group. Shi Miyuan received surrender letters sent by the garrison commanders of Suzhou and Huzhou in Lin'an City; the two letters arrived at the Secretariat almost simultaneously. Sitting behind his desk, he did not get angry, did not scold; he simply slowly stacked the two surrender letters together and pressed them under the paperweight, saying, "They are not surrendering; they are going home. These places have long been their homes."

And by the Piao Spring at Qianshan, the sixty-two-year-old Xin Qiji stood in armor before Tian Hu, leaning on his iron spear; the cold light on the spear tip was not as bright as in the past, but the hand gripping the spear still showed bulging veins, steady as a rock. He said, "I must go to Jiankang." Tian Hu knelt on the ground, clutching Xin Qiji's legs tightly, tears streaming down his face: "You are sixty-two; the arrow wound in your leg makes you unable to walk on cloudy days; how can you go?"

Xin Qiji looked down at him, silent for a long time, then slammed the iron spear onto the ground. The cast-iron cone at the spear's tail struck the frozen earth, causing the frost flowers on the ground to tremble and rustle. His voice was hoarse and stubborn: "Then we will walk slowly. One day at a time. If I cannot walk, you carry me. If you cannot carry me, I will crawl." He gazed at the northern horizon, where the red flags he had waited forty years for were. He knew that army did not need a sixty-two-year-old veteran to charge into battle, but he still had to go. Not to fight, but to see with his own eyes. Forty-three years ago, he led fifty cavalrymen charging into a Jin army camp of fifty thousand, capturing Zhang Anguo and returning south; at that time, he thought the Great Song would launch a Northern Expedition and the Central Plains would be restored. For forty-three years, the court had used his "Strategy for Pacifying the Barbarians" to line the bottom of a chest, driving him from Jiankang to Jiangxi, from Jiangxi to Qianshan, from a general to a farmer. Now someone was fighting for him; he must go to take a look. One look would be enough. The most clear-headed military strategist of this era, the most painful bystander in this tragedy, took his first step toward the direction of Jiankang in the final moments of his life.