Chapter 426: Rout

"Load the powder and shot!"

"Light the match!"

Huo Min, the Assistant Regional Commander of the Qin army's musket battalion standing at the easternmost end of the first rank, watched the Joseon gunners marching toward him in formation, a contemptuous expression on his face. With a curl of his lip, he gave the order.

Though he did not know the men opposite were Joseon gunners, the scattered formation in which they advanced and the fear plainly visible on the faces of the front-rank soldiers told Huo Min at a glance that these were men come to throw their lives away.

Unfortunately, the men opposite had faces much like those of Han Chinese, not the fierce-looking Jianzhou barbarians—a victory like this would bring far less military merit.

At the bugler's horn call, the gunners pulled out paper-wrapped cartridges shorter and thicker than a modern cigarette, bit them open, sprinkled some powder into the flash pan, then stuffed the paper casing into the muzzle and rammed it home with the ramrod. Stowing the ramrod, they drew out their tinder boxes, blew the banked embers alight to kindle the match, clamped or pressed the burning match into the serpentine cock, then tucked the tinder box back into their bosoms.

Even amid this tedious sequence of motions, the Joseon gunners had already closed to within seventy paces of the Qin army.

"Raise muskets!"

Row upon row of well-maintained muskets with dull black sheen to their barrels were leveled, and a wall of dark muzzles pointed forward.

When they saw the Ming troops opposite raising their muskets, the Joseon soldiers—from the Mobile Corps Commander leading them down to the common rank and file—felt their fear turn to panic, and their steps became disordered and chaotic.

Some soldiers, under intense strain, involuntarily quickened their pace, while others' steps grew heavy and sluggish.

Seeing his own side about to fall into disarray before a single shot had been fired, one of the leading Mobile Corps Commanders drew his blade and cut sideways, hacking down a soldier who had stopped in his tracks. Then, holding aloft the dripping long saber, he roared hoarsely: "Hold formation! Death to any who break ranks! Raise muskets and advance!"

The moment his words landed, before the soldiers could recover from their confusion, a shrill, piercing horn call suddenly rang out, followed by a crackling sound like firecrackers spreading across the fields.

Unnoticed, the front rank of Joseon gunners had already reached about fifty paces from the Qin army, and the first rank of Qin gunners loosed their muskets.

Given the improved range of the muskets and powder, the Ming muskets' effective killing range against targets wearing only cotton armor and leather armor had reached sixty paces. But Huo Min, in order to inflict maximum casualties on the enemy, had ultimately chosen to let them come closer before opening fire.

The tactic worked exactly as intended.

The first rank, firing from a kneeling position, stayed in place after discharging their pieces; the second rank, bent low at the waist, fired rapidly in turn; then the first two ranks swiftly crouched and peeled away to the sides, and the third rank fired their muskets.

The Joseon gunners never dreamed the Ming army would open fire from such a distance. Through the billowing gunsmoke, aside from the few dozen muskets that misfired for one reason or another, nearly three thousand lead balls came streaking in an instant.

The Joseon gunners, caught completely off guard, suffered a true head-on blow.

Amid the reeking wind of blood, a chorus of screams rang across the plain. The front two ranks of both square formations were nearly swept clean by the hail of shot—of a full sixteen hundred soldiers who had not even raised their muskets, in the blink of an eye barely half remained.

By all rights, the smoothbore muzzle-loaders of this era were terribly inaccurate, and neither their range nor their killing power should have been so fearsome. But remember—though the Joseon gunners' formation across the way had loosened, their men were still packed densely together.

Under this unbroken barrage of concentrated fire, so long as one stood within the hail of shot, the chance of not being hit was vanishingly small.

Sun Chuanting, watching from his high vantage point, immediately gave the order. As the standard-bearer beside him waved a small triangular red flag, a Qin army camp officer who had been watching from the siege tower issued commands, and the formation of two thousand spearmen began to move forward.

The Joseon gunners opposite the Ming army had already dissolved into chaos.

The Mobile Corps Commander of the left-flank square had been shot dead on the spot; the one on the right, paralyzed by fear, had yet to give the order to advance or retreat. At that very moment, the three thousand gunners in the rear ranks of the Ming army's two squares stepped forward several paces in unison, swiftly assuming the three-rank firing stance, while the two thousand spearmen had already reached the rear of the gunner formations.

Under the breeze sweeping the open field, the great clumps of congealed gunsmoke were slowly dispersing, and the panicked figures of the Joseon gunners were already flickering in and out of view.

Another shrill horn call sounded, and a second volley of shot screamed toward the Joseon gunners. Several hundred more were bowled over, and the copious blood turned that stretch of ground into mud.

By the time the last rank of gunners had fired, at the Ming camp officer's command the two thousand spearmen split into two groups and charged in ranks of two hundred at the stunned Joseon gunners.

The Joseon army had never been a strong force—otherwise it would not have been routed by a mere ten thousand-odd men of the Two White Banners.

This firepower they had never witnessed utterly stunned them. Seeing so many familiar figures and faces struck down in an instant, dead or wounded, the gunners in the rear ranks scattered and fled in all directions like a swarm, as though a pack of wolves were chasing at their heels.

Seeing this, the Ming spearmen surged forward with all their strength, their originally tight formation loosening as they ran. The leading camp officer did not try to stop them but gripped a long spear and sprinted at the head of the charge.

Because the Ming troops were charging straight at them while the Joseon gunners had turned to flee, and because of the press of the formation, the soldiers in the middle were cursing or crying out in alarm, unable to accelerate their flight for a time—and in an instant the Ming troops were upon them.

A musket that has lost its distance is truly no better than a fire poker. Seeing the Ming troops closing in, the Joseon gunners, packed into a jostling mass, cried out in despair. Many simply flung their muskets aside to flee faster, but were still run through and bowled over by spears over a zhang in length.

Jiang Youcheng, who had stayed in the rear formation out of wariness, stared dumbfounded at the scene before him. In all his years of military service, he had never encountered such a one-sided slaughter.

Too brutal!

He had thought that even if victory were hard to come by, the battle would at least inflict heavy casualties on the Ming army. He never imagined his own side would lose so cleanly and completely.

Before they had even reached their own firing range, they were being butchered like pigs and sheep. The soldiers he had thought so fine and strong now looked like helpless children.

"General! Run! The Ming troops are coming!"

"General! Save your own life first!"

The several guards beside him, faces full of terror, shouted in a frantic stream.

Jiang Youcheng turned his head to look north. The front-rank soldiers of the Two Red Banners were hurrying toward him, and the Ming troops who had been chasing down stragglers were already beginning to pull back and regroup. He turned, drew the long saber at his waist, pointed it south, and roared: "Sound the horn and rally! Follow me to kill the enemy!"

The guards beside Jiang Youcheng were startled by their general's sudden drawing of his blade.

One quick-reacting guard, thinking his general meant to kill himself, was about to lunge forward and snatch the saber away when he suddenly heard Jiang Youcheng's shout. He froze for a moment, then stole a glance and saw the great mass of Eight Banner troops hurrying over. Understanding at once, he grabbed up a horn and, cheeks puffed, blew the rally call.

By the time the Qing troops of the Two Red Banners arrived, the Ming spearmen a hundred-odd paces away had already withdrawn calmly to their own formation.

In the distance, Dorgon, watching the battle from horseback, wore a face as dark as water.

He had never imagined that the Joseon gunners he regarded as his trump card could be so utterly useless.

Those damned Joseon, and that damned Jiang Youcheng!

When asked earlier how they compared to the Ming army's musketeers, that shameless Jiang Youcheng had put on airs and told him with great self-importance: the two armies were roughly equal in strength, but he could not bear to raise his hand against his own suzerain's troops, and would show mercy when the time came—and hoped the Wise Prince would not take offense!

And he had actually believed that bullshit!

These Joseon, who could do nothing but brag!

Burning with fury, Dorgon said not a word, reined his horse around, and rode off.

To let Yoto see the trump card he had been hiding, he had even temporarily given up commanding the Two White Banners in battle—all so he could boast before Yoto.

And the result was nothing but a joke!