Chapter 99: The Tartars Who Got Slapped in the Face

During the march, the Longxianging Night Scouts ahead reported to Zhu Cilang that the Qing troops who had taken Shunyi were not Ajige's Bordered White Banner men, but Abatai's Plain Blue Banner men.

The Night Scouts had already ascertained that this Qing force numbered only three thousand, comprising one jalan of Manchu Plain Blue Banner and one jalan of Eight Banner Mongol troops—roughly mid-to-upper tier fighting strength among the Eight Banner armies.

Originally there had been four jalan totaling six thousand men; the other two jalan of Eight Banner Han troops had been crippled by Zhou Yuji's Zhou Banner regiment during the previous assault on Shunyi city, and they had only taken the city with the reinforcement of Qing troops from Huairou.

After hearing the Night Scouts' report, Zhu Cilang nodded. Three thousand Tartar troops—they would serve as an appetizer for the Yongwei Camp.

Zhu Cilang was not worried about Qing reinforcements from Huairou. Huairou lay to the northeast of Shunyi, while his Yongwei Camp was to the southwest—even if the Tartars came to the rescue, they could not execute a pincer movement against him. As for sneaking around his flanks or striking his rear, the Longxianging Night Scouts were not to be trifled with.

His only concern now was that the Qing army might garrison Shunyi and refuse to give battle. The losses from a siege would be too great, and the Yongwei Camp could not bear such casualties.

However, Zhu Cilang surmised that the Qing army would sally forth to fight. The Tartars had always been renowned for field combat and were extremely unskilled at defending cities. Moreover, given the Tartars' arrogant nature, passively defending a city did not suit their style of warfare at all.

Zhu Cilang believed that no matter how one looked at it, he had considerable confidence in retaking Shunyi.

After resting for half a shichen five li outside Shunyi city, Zhu Cilang immediately reorganized his troops and set out, heading straight for Shunyi.

The Yongwei Camp was now dangerously close to Shunyi—only four li away. Qing scout riders patrolling around the city finally spotted the Yongwei Camp's movements and swiftly rode back to report that a Ming army outside the city was preparing to attack Shunyi.

The commander who had taken Shunyi city was called Buzhan, a meiren janggin of the Plain Blue Banner. When he heard the scouts report that some reckless Ming army dared to take the initiative in attacking his forces, he nearly laughed himself into a fit.

"I hope these Ming troops can put up a decent fight, otherwise this campaign has been far too dull." Buzhan said cheerfully.

Since entering the pass at the end of the sixth month, their Great Qing army had been invincible, with Ming troops along the way fleeing at the mere sight of them. They had encountered only a few instances of stubborn resistance—Shunyi city, for example. Against Ming people who resisted so tenaciously, they always slaughtered freely after breaching the walls.

The march had gone so smoothly that Buzhan found it somewhat tedious. He loved the feeling of galloping across the battlefield and fighting hand to hand—that sensation of driving a spear into an enemy's body was wonderful.

Unfortunately, the Ming troops around them simply dared not engage the Qing army, and slaughtering common folk who had no ability to resist was utterly boring. Now a Ming force was voluntarily delivering itself to his doorstep, and Buzhan was inwardly delighted.

He even hoped this Ming force would be somewhat formidable, so he could have a rousing battle with them—unlike that Miyun Regional Commander Li Zhongzhen, who ran at the first clash.

With this mindset, Buzhan eagerly led all three thousand Eight Banner troops out of Shunyi city in full force, charging toward the Yongwei Camp.

Upon receiving the news, Zhu Cilang was also greatly pleased. The Qing army's proactive sally meant the Yongwei Camp would avoid a siege. He immediately ordered the entire Yongwei Camp to form ranks and prepare to meet the Qing army.

On a wide open plain four li from Shunyi city, the Yongwei Camp had already formed its battle array—still the linear formation.

The only difference from before was at the very front of the Yongwei Camp's formation: several dozen cannons were lined up in a row—red barbarian cannons and various types of folangji cannons alike. Soldiers of the artillery battalion stood in a line before their respective cannons, concealing them from view.

By the time the Yongwei Camp had finished forming its ranks, the Qing forces had already arrived. Leading the charge were one thousand Manchu Plain Blue Banner cavalry and one thousand Mongol cavalry, brandishing sabers and howling loudly as they spurred their horses—utterly wild.

The charge of two thousand cavalry carried tremendous momentum. A chaotic thunder of hooves rang out across the battlefield as they formed a wedge formation, madly advancing upon the Yongwei Camp's battle line, seeking to use their horses' momentum to deliver a fatal blow to the Ming troops before them.

When the Qing cavalry closed to three hundred paces from the Yongwei Camp's formation, the front rank of Ming soldiers suddenly withdrew as one. Buzhan thought the Ming troops were afraid and about to flee the field, and he burst into frantic, wild laughter.

The next moment, his laughter stopped dead. After the Ming troops fell back, a row of black objects was suddenly revealed before the formation.

"Cannons!!!" Buzhan felt his mind go "buzz"—for a moment he was completely stunned.

"So many cannons—what do we do?" Buzhan desperately wanted to withdraw his troops, but the cavalry's charge was too fierce; there was no stopping it now.

He had just begun to think of ordering the cavalry to split to both flanks and charge from the sides to avoid the cannons, when he heard the cannons ahead already belching tongues of fire, roaring to the heavens.

"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

A series of thunderous reports rang out. Even across three hundred paces, the Eight Banner troops could feel the very earth trembling beneath them.

Twenty red barbarian cannons belched forth a hail of solid shot, slamming into the Qing cavalry formation along trajectories too fast for the eye to track.

A string of screams rose from the Qing army's dense charging formation. Every man and horse struck by the iron balls of solid shot had their bodies pierced through and shattered into several pieces.

Some cannonballs even struck several people in succession, leaving behind a trail of bloody pulp, severed limbs, and broken bodies—a ghastly scene.

After the first volley of the red barbarian cannons, the Qing cavalry instantly lost over a hundred men. The Yongwei Camp's artillerymen, not bothering to savor the bloody spectacle, immediately swabbed out the barrels, reloaded the shot, and prepared for the next round of firing.

The fifty large and medium folangji cannons beside the twenty red barbarian cannons, however, remained completely motionless. Their gunners simply watched the show quietly, awaiting orders.

Seizing the opportunity while the Yongwei Camp's artillerymen were reloading, the Qing cavalry lashed their horses viciously, trying to break through the Yongwei Camp's artillery position at top speed and smash apart the battle formation.

The second volley of the twenty red barbarian cannons began, and the Qing cavalry lost another chunk of men. Then came the third volley.

"Report the distance!"

"Enemy at two hundred ten paces!"

"Enemy at two hundred paces!"

"Enemy at one hundred eighty paces!"

"Fire!"

Just as the Qing cavalry broke through to around one hundred eighty paces, the artillery commander waved his signal flag, and fifty folangji cannons suddenly fired all at once, producing a thunderous roar.

All fifty folangji cannons were loaded with grapeshot. When they fired simultaneously, shot flew toward the Qing cavalry like rain across the entire field before the Yongwei Camp's formation.

The front ranks of the charging Qing cavalry suddenly looked as if a hurricane had swept through them—across a battlefield a hundred meters wide, men and horses alike were mowed down completely, blasted into pulp.

A single smallest-size medium folangji cannon's grapeshot could cover a range thirty meters wide. The Yongwei Camp had fully fifty folangji cannons, half of them large ones. After that single wave, the Qing cavalry suffered a sight too horrible to behold.

Watching the Great Qing warriors in the front ranks collapse across the ground in an instant, Buzhan—still galloping forward in the rear formation—was struck dumb. The brutality before his eyes far exceeded anything within Buzhan's realm of understanding.

Where in the world had these Ming troops come from? How could they have so many cannons, so brutally effective, that in such a short time they had crippled the Great Qing iron cavalry that had always been invincible?

Just moments ago he had hoped this Ming force would be stronger so he could enjoy a good fight. Now, thinking back on it, it was simply a colossal joke. Buzhan felt his face burning with pain.