Chapter 122: Mosquitoes

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Li Dingguo's name would be renowned in later ages, but right now, Zhou Shixiang had to admit that the true pillar of the Southern Ming's resistance against the Qing was the Prince of Qin, Sun Kewang, far off on the Hunan battlefield leading the main force of the Daxi Army.

Historically, Sun Kewang eventually surrendered to the Qing, and from that point the Southern Ming's fortunes went into steep decline — but exactly which year Sun Kewang surrendered, Zhou Shixiang did not know.

Yet just as Zhou Shixiang had told Song Xianggong back in Luoding, the great event of Sun Kewang's surrender was probably not far off.

Why else would Cheng Bangjun, a secretary in the Bureau of Operations of the Yongli court's Ministry of War, suddenly have vanished without a trace? Why would Le Tongwu, the great general Li Dingguo had left in charge of Gaozhou, also have gone silent?

And why would Lei Xianchu and Pang Tianci, sent by Governor of the Four Prefectures Zhang Xiaoqi to take over Luoding, be so vague about affairs in Gaozhou?

Zhou Shixiang had openly defied Lei and Pang, even styling himself a roving bandit — so why had Governor Zhang Xiaoqi made not a single move against Luoding?

The only reasonable explanation was that Gaozhou was an empty city and Zhang Xiaoqi had no troops to send, or else some great affair at the Yongli court was tying the Governor's hands, leaving him powerless to deal with a pack of bandits and roving rebels right under his nose.

That great affair, most likely, had to do with Sun Kewang. Otherwise, with Li Dingguo's army backing him and Li Dingguo's general Le Tongwu holding the ground, how could Zhang Xiaoqi be helpless against a Taiping Camp of a mere few hundred men?

When exactly Sun Kewang would surrender to the Qing, Zhou Shixiang did not know — but he did know that the Southern Ming had held on for only a dozen-odd years before perishing. This year was already the ninth year of Yongli (the twelfth year of Shunzhi).

Judging by the timeline, the Southern Ming's destruction was likely only a few years away.

Combined with the fact that Li Dingguo had held on for several more years after Sun Kewang's surrender, Zhou Shixiang had reason to believe that the surrender he had long dreaded from the Prince of Qin, Sun Kewang, would come either this year or the next.

Before that, Sun Kewang and Li Dingguo would surely fight a battle — either Sun Kewang, bent on setting himself up as an independent power, would win, or Li Dingguo, bent on preserving the Zhu Ming, would win.

But whichever of the two prevailed, the outcome would be catastrophic for the Southern Ming's cause against the Qing.

With a great enemy before them, they were slaughtering one another over power, squandering what little remained of Han vitality.

Ever since the Jiashen year, the Great Ming had fallen into a strange cycle of brothers killing brothers and comrades feuding among themselves, step by step handing this fine land to the Manchu Tartars. Twelve years had passed, and now the tragedy was about to play out again.

Zhou Shixiang felt nothing but grief — grief upon grief — because he could not change the minds of those great men, nor could he use his own strength to stop this great upheaval in the Southern Ming.

The only thing he could do was to exhaust every ounce of his ability leading the Taiping Camp into this cause against the Qing — a cause that might succeed, might fail — for no other reason than to be worthy of the Yan-Huang blood flowing in his veins, to be worthy of his ancestors and forebears.

In his previous life, his identity card had borne the character "Han." In this life, he needed no identity papers at all — he was a Han, a Han with a blood feud against the Tartar caitiffs, a feud of family and nation.

A Han for one life, a Han for every life — sons and grandsons, all Han!

Zhou Shixiang was a Han, and more than that, a man — a son, a husband, a father. To the ancestors above, to his wife and children below, he swore: either I live and the barbarians die, or the barbarians live and I die!

The blood-deep hatred destined Zhou Shixiang to never live in ignoble peace, never to use his knowledge to become a compliant subject, a rich man, or a high official of the Great Qing. The only thing he could do was kill — kill more Tartar caitiffs — until the moment he fell.

Once, Zhou Shixiang had a dream. In the dream, he lay covered in blood not far from that great empty grave outside Xinhui's walls.

He vaguely remembered that in the dream he could no longer speak, and breathing was desperately hard — yet still he crawled forward, clinging to life, inch by inch forward, so that he might die beside his father and mother, die beside his wife and son...

F*** your mother, f*** your mother — to hell with it! A man dies with his prick pointing at the sky — f*** your mother!

Xinhui — I, Zhou Shixiang, will take it, for no other reason than revenge!

Unlike the administrative divisions of Guangdong in later ages, a single county in this era was truly enormous.

Xiangshan, the base Zhou Shixiang had chosen for the Taiping Army, would in later times hold three whole cities and a special district — yet in this age, all that territory belonged to a single county.

Gaoyao County was the same. In later times, Gaoyao's territory would contain at least several counties; now, every mountain and stream belonged to Gaoyao alone, and its population was pitifully small compared to later ages.

Apart from the county seat of Gaoyao, on the Taiping Army's westward march Zhou Shixiang did not see a single intact village or town.

The farther west they went, the more desolate it became — a hundred li without a soul — and the scenery shifted from plains and hills to endless mountain ranges. The official road had long since fallen into ruin.

More than half the time, the Taiping Army was not marching but shoving. On the mountain paths, the speed of carts and horses could only be called snail's pace.

No matter how urgent the men were, there was nothing to be done but creep forward bit by bit. Fortunately, there was no Qing army blocking the way ahead, and the Xiongwei Battalion behind reported no Qing troops in pursuit from Gaoyao.

As long as Heaven was kind and held off the rain, four more days would see the Taiping Army step into Xinhui's territory.

The weather was hot, and meat simply could not be preserved. The pigs and sheep seized from Gaoyao had been limited to begin with and had long since been devoured to the last scrap by the troops — so how could anyone have been reluctant to eat them before they spoiled?

After noticing that soldiers in every battalion liked to catch snakes and frogs in the little streams and creeks when making camp, Zhou Shixiang simply had the company commanders organize special squads to catch them.

Once caught, everything was thrown into great cauldrons with vegetable oil and salt and boiled, then the cooks distributed it to each squad — all to make up for the lack of meat and the physical toll of constant marching.

It wasn't just snakes and frogs — fish and shrimp were caught too. The Hujie Battalion went at it hardest: they dammed both ends of a small river, then two or three hundred men scooped water with every kind of tool.

After enormous effort, they actually drained that stretch of river dry and hauled out nearly a thousand jin of black carp and grass carp. That night, the whole battalion was steeped in the fragrance of fish.

Zhou Shixiang ate a black carp as well. Though it lacked the soy sauce, chili, scallions, and ginger of later ages — just a bit of oil and salt — it tasted incomparably fresh and delicious.

A whole fish weighing over five jin, and he alone ate more than half of it.

On the 22nd, after five days of marching, the Taiping Army reached Lingyang Gorge at the westernmost edge of Gaoyao. This Lingyang Ridge sat within the gorge, commanding the heights and holding the strategic pass — the county name Gaoyao itself came from this place.

Before entering Lingyang Ridge, Zhou Shixiang ordered the Zhenlu Battalion up front to send a squad in to scout. Only after confirming there was no Qing ambush did the main force follow.

That night, the entire army spent the night on Lingyang Ridge. The weather was hot — no need for blankets, and no one felt cold.

The only trouble was the mosquitoes, far too many of them. The camp had little mosquito-repelling herb, so all night long the sound of soldiers slapping mosquitoes rose and fell in waves.

It was not until the latter half of the night that the noise finally died away — not because the mosquitoes had all been swatted, but because everyone's eyelids had grown too heavy to lift. All they wanted was sleep; who cared about the mosquitoes anymore?

Mosquitoes are the surest way to spread malaria.

After a night of being bitten, Zhou Shixiang woke the next day with great welts all over his neck and hands, and his first act was to summon the company commanders and deputy company commanders of every battalion for a council of war.

The subject of the council was not marching, nor fighting, but how to guard against mosquito bites.