Chapter 409: Barrage

"Raise your muskets!"

Facing the overwhelming tide of Qing cavalry sweeping toward them like an avalanche, the officer commanding the first line of Ming musketeers shouted with all his might, while his personal guards puffed out their cheeks and blew their trumpets.

The short, piercing trumpet blasts cut through the thunderous rumble of hooves striking the earth—a sound like a thousand war drums beating at once—and roused the spirits of the many pale-faced musketeers. Following the steps drilled in peacetime exercises, the soldiers blew life into their already-lit matchcords, then swung their muskets down into position. Eighteen hundred dark muzzles pointed toward the front.

Beneath the alternating hammering of several thousand hooves, great billowing clouds of dust spread through the air, and the solid earth itself began to tremble faintly.

The Qing cavalrymen on horseback held the reins in one hand and gripped their sabers tightly in the other, their upper bodies hunched low behind their horses' heads to reduce the danger of being hit directly by musket balls.

"Fire!"

The battalion officer standing at the far right of the front rank, his face flushed crimson and his eyes blazing, roared out a single command. His raised right hand slashed downward viciously, and the short, shrill trumpet call sounded once more.

A crackling sound like popping beans was swallowed up by the thunderous pounding of hooves. The six hundred muskets of the front rank, fired from a kneeling position, went off first, and great sheets of white smoke slowly rose into the air.

Immediately after, the second rank of musketeers, bent forward at the waist, also discharged their weapons. Then the musketeers of the first two ranks, having completed their volleys, quickly bent low and moved to both sides, preparing to withdraw behind the second square formation of musketeers to once again complete the cleaning and reloading of their muskets.

After the third rank of musketeers had all fired, they likewise scurried low to both sides. The second formation, ten paces behind them, had already assumed the three-rank volley stance, waiting only for the soldiers ahead to clear the gap before opening fire immediately.

By this time, the area thirty to forty paces in front of the Ming formation had become a veritable hell.

In the first volley of the Ming musketeers, apart from a few dozen muskets that misfired, the remaining seventeen hundred-odd lead balls knocked over three hundred Qing cavalrymen. Horses and Qing corpses lay scattered everywhere, and great pools of blood soaked into the earth, turning the entire area as muddy and treacherous as if it had been drenched by rain.

The Qing cavalry charging up from behind had no choice but to either haul on their reins and leap their horses over the obstacles, or wrench their reins aside to veer around them—which utterly destroyed the momentum of the entire cavalry charge.

Seizing this brief opening, the musketeers of the first formation swiftly withdrew behind the second.

The musketeers each pinched out the matchcord held in their serpentine clamps, pulled out their ramrods to scrape the residual powder from the barrels, then took out paper-wrapped powder cartridges, tore them open with their teeth, sprinkled a bit into the flash pan, stuffed the powder charge together with the lead ball into the muzzle, and rammed it down to the bottom with the ramrod. Finally, each man reached into the pouch at his waist, drew out a small copper bottle wrapped in thick cotton cloth, pulled out the stopper, blew the smoldering tinder inside into flame, and used it to ignite the matchcord. After putting the bottle away and clamping the matchcord back into the serpentine, the second shot was ready.

Just as the musketeers were absorbed in this series of actions, the three ranks of the second formation had already completed their volleys. The musketeers of the first formation began to reform their ranks at their officers' shouted commands, and after several dozen breaths the firing square was once again assembled, then raised their muskets toward the front at the urging of the trumpet calls.

Time passed drop by drop, but that shrill trumpet call never came. The entire battlefield suddenly fell into an eerie silence, with only the gradually receding sound of hooves bringing a trace of life to the still battlefield.

A faint southern breeze blew past, and the gunsmoke lingering before the musketeers' eyes quickly dissipated. What met their gaze was a field strewn with the corpses of warhorses and Qing soldiers.

Looking out into the distance, the Qing archers and infantry on both flanks had already withdrawn to their own formation. Several hundred Qing cavalry were galloping back from both sides, and a few dozen Qing soldiers who had crawled out from beneath the bodies of dead horses were trudging northward with difficulty.

The net of fire formed by the Ming army's two volleys—over three thousand lead balls in total—had inflicted more than six hundred casualties on the Qing forces.

Of these six hundred-plus casualties, apart from those struck directly by musket balls, many had been thrown from their mounts after their horses were shot down, then trampled to death or injury by the charging warhorses behind them, or had broken their necks in the fall.

Zhou Yuji did not order the sword-and-shield men forward to search the battlefield and collect heads.

In such a gruesome scene, even if quite a few wounded Qing soldiers still clung to life, they were already nothing but burdens. Better to temporarily spare their lives and let the Qing army come retrieve them—that would also serve to affect and demoralize the Qing troops.

Abatai's face was a mask of wooden indifference.

Seated on his horse the whole time, he had witnessed everything that had just transpired.

In the ninth year of Chongzhen, he had followed Ajige at Changping and encountered a similar scene.

In his recollection, without the cover of cannons, Ming musketeers alone had never been so fearsome.

As long as one could endure the continuous volleys of musketry, and catch the Ming soldiers before they had time to reload, the musketeers would be nothing but lambs for Eight Banner soldiers to slaughter.

But that brief and bloody engagement just now had utterly shattered his thinking.

This formation of the Ming army was far more advanced than the old style of rotating volleys line by line. Under such unceasing output of firepower, no living thing could survive.

Unless one was willing to fill the gap with human lives.

But the Eight Banners' own limited manpower made it very difficult to trade life for life against the Ming army in close combat—even trading one for ten would not be worth it.

The Ming state had a population in the hundreds of millions; no matter how many casualties they suffered, they could always conscript countless soldiers to take the field. But all of Jianzhou had only around two million people, and the Eight Banner soldiers capable of fighting well numbered a mere eighty thousand or less. One could say that every death was a loss that could not be quickly replaced in a short time.

The surrendered Mongols and the Han Army banners could not even begin to compare with Eight Banner soldiers in fighting ability or fighting will.

The battle just now was proof of that.

Though the casualties had been heavy, the Ming muskets had now been fired out. If the surviving cavalry behind had possessed a bit more courage and seized this rare opportunity to charge in and cut down the enemy, wouldn't those Ming musketeers have been lambs awaiting the slaughter?

As long as they became entangled in close combat with the Ming soldiers, and their own infantry pressed forward on the momentum, how many of those several thousand Ming troops would have survived?

But those damned Mongol cavalry had actually been scared stiff by the Ming muskets, and at the critical moment had actually fled the field!

"Beile Rao Yu, what are we to do next? It's not just that the Ming cannons are ferocious—who would have thought their muskets were this formidable as well! My men lost over a thousand in just two volleys! At this rate, things won't do!"

Gerileng, who had hurried over after tallying the battle losses, felt as if his heart were being twisted with knives.

Suffering such enormous losses in so short a time was something he simply could not accept or face.

Proud Mongol warriors had not even had the chance to swing their sabers before the enemy—this was not war at all, this was plainly marching to one's death.

"Enough! This Beile is racking his brains over how to break the Ming musket formation! Someone! Send five hundred booi bondservants to clear the battlefield—bring back every living soul and every corpse! Drag back the dead horses too, and let those slaves have a taste of meat!"

After observing that the Ming musketeers had already sat down to rest, Abatai suppressed the urge to raise his whip and strike Gerileng, instead steering the conversation elsewhere.

He would still need the Mongol Banners' help in many things to come; he could not punish the man for his disrespectful tone, though in the past such insolence would have been absolutely unthinkable.

The battlefield had to be cleared clean—these obstacles seriously hampered the cavalry's charge. Besides, helping the Mongol cavalry recover their dead was also a good way to win over their hearts.

"Report! Beile Rao Yu! Prince Cheng has sent this slave to deliver his command! He is requisitioning three thousand cavalry to report for duty!"

Just then, the sound of hooves approached from afar, growing nearer. A Qing soldier with two red triangular flags stuck in his back galloped from the distance straight toward Abatai's great standard. When he was still a dozen or so paces from the banner, he reined in his horse, swung himself down, hurried forward a few steps to Abatai's mount, performed a kneeling salute, and reported in a loud voice.

"Three thousand cavalry? What's happened on Prince Cheng's side? Why does he need to pull away so many men?"

Abatai, seasoned by many campaigns, knew at once that Yoto had run into trouble as well, so he followed up with a question.

He had already lost over a thousand cavalry in two defeats on his own front. If another three thousand were pulled away, holding back the attack of the ten thousand-strong Ming army opposite him would become rather difficult.

"In reply to Beile Rao Yu, our army met resistance when engaging the Ming forces! The rest this slave does not know!"

The Qing messenger replied respectfully.

"Does Prince Cheng have any other instructions?"

Abatai pressed further.

From his understanding of Yoto, he knew that the always-composed Yoto would not make such a rash decision without other arrangements in place.

"In reply to the Beile, Prince Zhishun is leading three thousand men of the Han Army banners and is already on the way!"

Abatai's heart leapt with joy at these words. He was just about to speak when, suddenly, another urgent burst of hoofbeats sounded in the distance, and a Qing scout came galloping in at full speed.

"Report to the Beile! A large force of Ming troops is heading toward us from the west! No fewer than ten thousand men!"