Chapter 410: White Pole

"Ming troops to the west? Under what banner? How many firearms? Infantry or cavalry? Where do they come from? How far from our army?"

The scout's report made Abatai's mood, which had just lightened somewhat, grow heavy once again.

The ten-odd thousand Ming troops before him were already a terrible headache; if another ten thousand with the same equipment arrived, his meager forces might not be able to hold.

The intent of these twenty thousand Ming troops was clear—they meant to break through the line he was defending, reinforce the Ming troops guarding the vital grain stores, and send the Eight Banners troops who had come from afar home empty-handed.

"Reporting to the Beile, the Ming troops to the west fly the banner of Qin. They have roughly one battalion of arquebusiers, several dozen small cannons, and apart from a hundred-odd scouts, no large cavalry force! These troops marched out of the south gate of Ningyuan city, and the main body has already crossed the moat, less than ten li from our army! But... but..."

"But what?! Speak quickly!"

Hearing that the newly arrived Ming troops did not have many firearms, and no cannons or cavalry, Abatai's mood relaxed somewhat.

"Judging by the weapons the Ming troops to the west carry, they are not much different from the White Pole troops from the Battle of Hun River many years ago!"

"What? The White Pole troops?! Are you certain you saw correctly?"

Hearing the scout's report, Abatai's brows shot up and his heart gave a violent leap. His already heavy mood suddenly filled with an inexplicable sense of panic, and his face turned ashen.

The bloody battle by the banks of the Hun River twenty-two years ago surfaced once more before his eyes.

Back then, Abatai, not yet thirty, had witnessed with his own eyes the tenacious will and extraordinary valor of the White Pole troops, and even now the memory still made his heart tremble.

Just when tens of thousands of Ming troops had been routed and sent fleeing in collapse, and the elite Eight Banners forces were at the height of their glory, that army of men who feared neither death nor danger appeared before the Eight Banners soldiers.

Under the fierce bombardment of the Eight Banners' cannons, several thousand White Pole troops crossed the river boldly without any cover from ranged fire. After crossing, they formed a strange battle array on the opposite bank and engaged in a savage slaughter against Eight Banners troops several times their number.

The Eight Banners, following their usual practice, sent archers and heavily armored elites to smash head-on against the White Pole troops, but unexpectedly suffered heavy casualties from those long spears with hooked tips.

Five hundred elites, including several dozen White Armor soldiers, were cut down to the last man by the White Pole troops.

The White Pole soldiers used the hooks on their long spears to trip up Eight Banners soldiers who had not yet closed in, then dragged them over directly. Under the stabbing of several sharp long spears, even the thickest armor was pierced through with several large holes, and no amount of personal martial prowess could be brought to bear.

Seeing the White Pole troops' fighting power was so formidable, the Eight Banners soldiers changed their tactics, exploiting their enormous numerical advantage to launch an encirclement.

The outer several ranks of White Pole troops all wore heavy armor weighing dozens of jin, and even the Eight Banners' heavy arrows could do nothing against it. In desperation, they had to resort to rotating tactics—each banner selecting its bravest warriors to take turns in the fray—and only after paying several thousand casualties were they able to break the White Pole troops' formation.

The battle lasted from morning until afternoon. Only when utterly exhausted did the White Pole troops finally begin to withdraw. Those left behind to cover the retreat fought with the last of their strength, refusing to yield, and in the end several hundred managed to cross the Hun River back to safety, while the several thousand White Pole troops who had fought the Eight Banners all day were wiped out to the last man.

This battle finally made the ever-victorious Eight Banners army realize that such fierce and courageous soldiers existed among the Ming troops, and it chilled their blood for a long time to come.

Watching the scout ride off into the distance, Abatai forced himself to calm his mind and think for a moment, then instructed the messenger Yoto had sent to convey orders: "Go back and report to Prince Cheng. A large force of Ming troops has appeared at Ningyuan city. If too many troops are drawn from my division, I fear I will be unable to withstand the Ming assault! For now I can only dispatch fifteen hundred cavalry there. Once my division has repelled the Ming troops, I will send more men to the main camp!"

After the messenger left, Abatai ordered Gerelong to dispatch fifteen hundred cavalry to report to Yoto immediately, then pulled back the cavalry wings monitoring the Ming troops to rest and eat. He sent two thousand cavalry who had not yet seen battle to the west to harass and monitor the White Pole troops, seeking opportunities to inflict casualties.

He then gave further orders, mobilizing the booi bondservants to dig earth and build walls on the west and south sides of the original camp, reinforcing the defensive works, preparing to retreat into the camp for defense should matters take a turn for the worse—to hold these twenty thousand Ming troops outside Ningyuan city and prevent them from reinforcing the Ming troops guarding the vital grain stores.

The remaining several thousand cavalry were split into several groups, using the broad terrain of the area to roam and gallop, harassing these twenty thousand Ming troops.

These were the only countermeasures he could think of on the spot for now. He could only pray that Yoto would achieve the desired results on his end as quickly as possible.

With nearly ten thousand Ming troops wielding formidable firearms to his front, and the White Pole troops that the Eight Banners soldiers dreaded so much to his west, this was likely the hardest battle the Great Qing had faced since its founding.

"Reporting to the Lady! Large formations of Jianzhou barbarian cavalry have appeared a few li ahead—no fewer than two thousand riders!"

A scout galloped up to Qin Liangyu, who sat on horseback, then dismounted and knelt on one knee to report.

"Understood! Order the vanguard to advance slowly, have the crossbowmen keep up, and when we meet the enemy, form up and shoot them down as opportunity allows! The two wings are to tighten toward the center!"

The scout clasped his hands in acknowledgment, rose swiftly, trotted to his horse, mounted, wheeled the steed around, and galloped off at speed.

Qin Liangyu, past sixty years of age, still sat tall and straight on her horse. On her head was a ten-jin iron helmet, from which two long pheasant plumes swayed in the wind. The bronze mirror plate of her imperially bestowed mountain-pattern armor gleamed bright, and the tiger-skin war boots on her feet were a full size larger than those of ordinary men.

"Mother! Your son wishes to go to the vanguard to scout the enemy's situation. I beg Mother's permission! Since the sixth year of Chongzhen, it has been five years since your son last crossed swords with the Jianzhou barbarians. Now that I have returned beyond the passes to fight them again, all I wish is to slay many of the foe and avenge my eldest and second uncles!"

Ma Xianglin, riding one horse-length behind Qin Liangyu, spurred his mount forward to catch up with her, then clasped his hands from the saddle and reported.

Qin Liangyu turned her head to look at her son—tall and imposing, steady and composed, with an eyepatch over his left eye—and a swell of pride rose unbidden in her heart.

Since the first year of Tianqi, when he had followed her leading the White Pole troops to reinforce Liaodong, her beloved son had successively led troops in over a hundred engagements against the Jianzhou barbarians, She Chongming's rebels, and the roving bandits within the borders. Every time he charged to the front through arrow and stone, and his prestige among the White Pole troops was long established. He was deeply revered by the soldiers and had earned the reputation of "One-Eyed Ma."

"Go on then, my son. It's just as well to have Jiang Zuo Ming replaced—after all, he has never fought the Jianzhou barbarians. Not knowing their ways, he may well suffer for it. If the enemy force is great, my son must not recklessly charge their formation!"

Qin Liangyu looked at Ma Xianglin with loving eyes but gave no further admonishment.

Her son, accomplished in both letters and arms, was battle-hardened and fiercely brave. Had he not lost an eye to a Jianzhou arrow in the first year of Tianqi, the reputations of "Zilong of the army" and "Silver-Spear Young Ma Chao" would never have become "One-Eyed Ma."

"Your son receives the order!"

Ma Xianglin, clad in black lamellar armor, saluted his mother, then galloped forward with a dozen-odd personal guards.

Leading the two thousand men as vanguard was Qin Liangyu's nephew Qin Zuoming. Upon receiving Qin Liangyu's order, he immediately commanded the entire force to slow their pace, waiting for the infantry two li behind to catch up.

The clatter of hooves sounded from behind, and in short order Ma Xianglin rode up.

"Third Brother! Your younger brother has come to take your place! Return to the central army and await orders!"

Seeing Ma Xianglin arriving from the central army, Qin Zuoming knew his fifth younger brother's hands were itching for a fight. Easygoing by nature, he laughed and said, "Fifth Brother, the men across from us are all Jianzhou cavalry—don't charge too far out! I'll be heading back now!"

"Third Brother, rest easy! Would your younger brother be a reckless man?"

Qin Zuoming said no more. Smiling, he clasped his hands in farewell to Ma Xianglin and rode with a few personal guards toward the central army.

After Qin Zuoming left, Ma Xianglin rode forward with his guards to the very front of the column and reined in his horse to observe.

A hundred-odd paces ahead, several dozen Qing scouts galloped back and forth, brazenly observing the White Pole troops' formation. A few riders even spurred their horses straight toward the White Pole troops.

These few Mongol Banners cavalrymen, relying on their skilled horsemanship, rode to within fifty or sixty paces of Ma Xianglin and began performing provocative displays of equestrian tricks.

Some hid themselves in the stirrups, some stood upright on the backs of their galloping, jolting horses, and some drew their soft composite bows and loosed arrows at Ma Xianglin and his men from their speeding mounts. The Qing cavalry not far off laughed and watched these men carry on, occasionally letting out cheers and jeers.

Ma Xianglin watched these Qing soldiers with a calm expression, gauging the wind speed and direction.

Then he slowly reached back and took down the powerful bow slung across his back—one drawing one dan and two—and drew a three-edged long arrow from his quiver, nocking it to the string. Suddenly he glared and let out a thunderous shout, and in the same instant the bow drew full like a harvest moon and the arrow flew like a shooting star, the long shaft whistling through the air like lightning toward the Qing soldier nearly sixty paces away.

That Qing soldier standing on his horse saw Ma Xianglin draw his arrow and bend his bow, but before he could react, the shrieking three-edged arrow pierced through his eye socket and out the back of his skull. The tremendous impact carried his body off the galloping horse, and he crashed straight down onto the ground.