Chapter 132: The Old People

The rolling logs are spent!

The stones are spent!

The Qing army is less than thirty paces from the line! Twenty paces! Ten paces!...

With no ranged weapons left to hold the Qing army back, the rear camp's soldiers finally met them head-on in close combat under the Qing army's assault, which pressed on heedless of casualties.

The consequences of their extreme shortage of weapons now became glaringly apparent. Facing Qing soldiers armed to the teeth, the rear camp's troops, with only a small number of iron weapons among them, simply could not suppress the Qing army's frenzied attack.

The first to cross the obstacles and charge the rear camp's line were several dozen Han Banners soldiers wearing double-layered cotton armor. They carried no firelocks; each man gripped a long saber.

Like the Qing troops slaughtering the camp's women and children on the rear slope, the moment they came up the hill they killed everyone in sight.

In almost the span of a few breaths, the dozens of security team members and depot troops on the line facing them were dead or wounded to the last man.

However, because the mountain path was strewn with dead and wounded Qing soldiers, and because the rear camp had blocked the road with great quantities of rock in the preceding days, the Qing army could not swarm up all at once. They could only climb over the obstacles in batches.

Thus, although the Han Banners soldiers at the head had broken through the line, the Qing troops behind could not immediately follow. This let Zhao Sihai, whose heart had been in his throat, steady himself a little.

He at once led the thirty combat soldiers and thirty security team members held in reserve in a charge at those bannermen, while urgently drawing troops from other sectors to reinforce, trying to drive the Qing soldiers who had come up the hill back down.

Unfortunately, the bannermen who had come up were too fierce and brave. Few in number, but every man a skilled and valiant fighter, and their weapons were far too sharp.

In close combat, the wretchedly equipped rear camp troops were simply no match for them. Zhao Sihai led several charges, losing over a hundred men, yet still could not drive the bannermen down.

Meanwhile, the Qing troops below used this interval to come up in another batch. Among this new batch were quite a few archers, who the moment they came up began loosing arrows at the Taiping Army.

A squad leader under Zhao Sihai had just skewered a Qing soldier with his long spear when, before he could turn, he heard a "thwip"—his body jerked to a halt. He looked down and saw an arrow squarely in his chest.

Most of the shaft had bored into his breast, and warm blood dripped steadily out along the arrow shaft.

At such close range there was no need to aim at all. Those Qing archers frantically loosed their arrows at the Taiping Camp soldiers, who had no protection whatsoever.

Lives were reaped one after another. Zhao Sihai could no longer organize a counterattack against those Qing troops, nor could he effectively direct the remaining soldiers.

He could only hold on grimly with the combat soldiers around him.

As more Qing troops fought their way up, the rear camp's line tottered on the verge of collapse. Besides the breach the Han Banners had first opened, the other sectors were broken through one after another.

At every breach the ground was covered with the corpses of rear camp soldiers. Many had not even had the chance to drag a single Qing soldier down with them before being shot dead on the spot.

What remained was regret—regret before death. They had done all they could. They were no cowards. They had not run. They had fought with everything they had. So why could the wooden spears in their hands not kill those Qing curs, not kill those Tartars!

By the time the crack of Qing firelocks reached his ears, Zhao Sihai knew the first line of defense could not be held.

To preserve what men remained, he ordered the depot troops and the conscripted laborers to fall back to the second line, while the remaining combat soldiers and security team members withdrew with him, fighting as they went.

The second line of defense was built around the Guifeng Pavilion area, a little over two li from the first line.

The only passage between the two was still the mountain road winding up from below, but on this stretch there was no place to set an ambush, nor any way to deploy defenders, for one side was a cliff and the other a steep, forested slope.

During the retreat, several combat soldiers beside Zhao Sihai had been carrying a chest as they ran. More than once the soldiers carrying the chest shouted something at Zhao Sihai, but he did not answer them.

Zhao Sihai could not grant his men's request.

He knew the thunderclap bombs in the chest could inflict casualties on the Qing army and were enough to terrify them, but he knew even better that when the force had divided at Xinxing, Battalion Commander Zhou Shixiang had given him only twenty thunderclap bombs.

Now only fourteen remained in the chest—the other six had just gone off on the rear slope.

Unless driven to utter desperation, Zhao Sihai would never bring out these last fourteen thunderclap bombs. He had even already made up his mind: if Zhou Shixiang's reinforcements truly never came, he would not throw his life away here for nothing.

These fourteen thunderclap bombs were his only hope of survival. Yutai Temple was so large, and in the dead of night, there might well still be a way to live.

On the front slope, the first line of defense had fallen; on the rear slope, the situation was desperate in the extreme.

Song Xianggong's hoarse shouts could not reverse the defeat, and the security team members' bravery could not defeat the Qing army.

"We can't hold! Quick, go protect Master Song and get him back to the Great Hero Hall—go!"

Song Xianggong's personal guard, security team captain Zhou Da, seeing that his men could no longer hold back the Qing soldiers, in his desperation grabbed a security team member beside him and told him to hurry and take Song Xianggong back to the Great Hero Hall.

"Go, now! I'll hold them here. We must not let them capture Master Song!"

After that frantic shout, Zhou Da let out a muffled roar, raised his blade, and charged at the Qing soldiers pouring in.

Zhou Da did his duty—he protected the chief administrator's safety to the utmost of his ability. After taking several cuts, he collapsed to the ground, and even as he fell he cried out behind him: "My lord, go! My lord, go!"

Song Xianggong was carried toward the front slope with tears in his eyes. Several times he turned his head, trying to catch one more glimpse of Zhou Da, but all he saw were the Qing soldiers in pursuit—nothing else.

The road to the front slope was jammed with fleeing women and children. The wolf-like, tiger-like Qing soldiers behind them had them shrieking in terror. Some were so frightened their legs had gone weak, and they slumped helplessly to the ground, making the only road of escape even harder to travel.

"Let the women and children through! Let the women and children through!"

From the darkness ahead, someone suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs. Then several white-haired old men could be seen laboriously pushing their way out of the crowd. They exchanged no words, yet they shared a single purpose—to let the women and children, to let their own kin, go first.

More and more old people emerged from the crowd. They broke free of their families' desperate pleas and, without the slightest hesitation, turned and headed back.

The fleeing crowd wept as one. Everyone knew what these old people meant to do. They were giving the hope of survival to them!

"Grandpa, Grandpa, don't leave me, don't leave me!"

"Father, come back! Come back!"

"Grandaunt, you can't go!"

The cries of their kin tugged at every old person's heart. Their eyes brimmed with tears, yet not one of them stopped to turn back. Instead, gritting their teeth and filled with towering rage, they charged at the Qing soldiers in pursuit.