Chapter 295: The Emperor Has Come to See Us

"Your Majesty, the Imperial Guard has lost eighty-three men dead and two hundred and six wounded!"

Inside the Governor-General's residence within the pass city, the Chongzhen Emperor now sat in what had been Chen Qiyu's seat. Hearing Wu Qihua's report, Chongzhen nodded, his brow slightly furrowed.

Seeing the Chongzhen Emperor's expression, Chen Qiyu was somewhat puzzled. In his view, these losses were actually unexpectedly good—for the Imperial Guard to achieve such results on their first taste of battle was truly rare.

Yet this casualty ratio, in the Chongzhen Emperor's eyes, was genuinely beyond his expectations.

The Chongzhen Emperor had already scouted out the battlefield situation. The reason he had not directly committed the Imperial Guard was, first, that most of the Guard were green recruits who only knew how to follow orders, and he feared they would be crippled the moment they went up.

Second, the Chongzhen Emperor recalled the Battle of Shanhai Pass in history and wanted to replay Dorgon's tactics verbatim against Li Zicheng. Sure enough, the Dashun army was especially susceptible to that trick.

What the Imperial Guard had actually done this time, most people had seen with their own eyes. The constant boasting about the Guard's fighting prowess was nothing but sycophantic flattery—the Chongzhen Emperor had long been immune to that sort of thing, having watched everything clearly from atop the main pass wall.

By the time the Imperial Guard went up, the roving bandits were already fought to exhaustion. This time they charged and the bandits scattered; all that remained was forming ranks to clean up the battlefield. Even so, they suffered nearly three hundred casualties—the Chongzhen Emperor was, to say the least, deeply dissatisfied.

"Your Majesty, the other contingents combined have suffered over thirteen thousand five hundred casualties—more than four thousand dead and nearly ten thousand wounded. But there are still over three hundred eighty brothers with severe injuries; some, even if they recover, will never take the field again or wield blade and spear." The one reporting this time was Mou Wenju, the cousin of Mou Wenshou, Regional Commander of Shandong.

Seeing the grim expressions on both the Chongzhen Emperor and Chen Qiyu, Mou Wenju hesitated. After seeking permission from his elder cousin, he lingered at the side for a moment before stepping forward to continue his report:

"Many brothers are beyond saving. Would you... care to go and see them?"

Mou Wenju's words were quite artful. First, his entire statement never mentioned "Your Majesty"—though by protocol he was reporting to the Chongzhen Emperor, he kept his eyes on Chen Qiyu the whole time he spoke. Slippery indeed.

In other camps of the Great Ming, when a commander or governor personally visited the wounded in camp, it signified that those men no longer had value for battle—once healed, they would face being persuaded to retire, and their military careers would be at an end.

But when Chen Qiyu served as Governor-General, there was no such practice. After every battle, whether great or small, no matter how tangled and busy the camp affairs, he would always personally go down among the troops to visit his soldiers.

On the night of last year's great victory at Guguan, the words Chen Qiyu had spoken were still passed from mouth to mouth by every soldier to this day.

At that time, after witnessing a severely wounded man die despite treatment, Chen Qiyu actually wept openly in camp before all the officers, saying, "All soldiers under my command are as my own sons and nephews," moving the entire army—all were willing to fight to the death for him.

Chen Qiyu personally ordered his subordinate officers to ensure compensation for the families of the fallen reached each person's hands, and the very next day petitioned Chongzhen to enshrine those who died of severe wounds in the Hall of Loyal Martyrs.

After hearing the depot and guard's report on the matter, the Chongzhen Emperor immediately approved Chen Qiyu's petition and praised him endlessly, saying, "Since Chuanting's death, none have been equal to the post of Governor-General—until Qiyu."

Chen Qiyu shot Mou Wenju an appreciative glance, affirming his performance just now.

Mou Wenju's approach had real subtlety. The Emperor's person was worth ten thousand gold—one absolutely could not ask him at such a time to go down to the military camp, for that would make the Chongzhen Emperor lose face, turning it into forcing the sovereign into camp—an act of disloyalty and dishonor.

Moreover, the fact that the Chongzhen Emperor had personally led the campaign again over a mere Guguan already astonished Chen Qiyu. To have the Son of Heaven, the supreme sovereign, go down to visit those crude soldiers would be going too far.

"Minister Chen once said his subordinates were all as sons and nephews, and I find that reasonable. So today I will say this as well: 'Under heaven, all land is the king's land; to the shores of the sea, all men are the king's subjects.' All under heaven are my people. You fought bravely and were wounded for me, for the Great Ming. If I did not go to see you, how could my conscience bear it? What kind of person would I be then?"

Having spoken, the Chongzhen Emperor saw that some wished to dissuade him, and directly rose from his seat, walking down, and asked Mou Wenju: "Where are the wounded housed? I will go personally to visit them."

Mou Wenju was stunned on the spot. Heaven have mercy—it was his first time being in such close contact with the Emperor. Even the breath from the Emperor's speech could flow across his face—truly an indescribable feeling.

Recovering his wits, Mou Wenju hastily stepped aside to make room, lowered his head in a gesture of invitation, and said with utmost humility: "Reporting to Your Majesty, the wounded are quartered in the sheltered area behind the pass. Please, Your Majesty and His Excellency the Governor-General, follow me."

The Chongzhen Emperor was not as complicated as others imagined. As one who had come from a later age, his view of life and death naturally differed from that of his contemporaries. Even setting aside so-called popular support, these soldiers had fought to the death for him—going to see them was the bare minimum he ought to do.

Following Mou Wenju to the sheltered area behind the pass, the Chongzhen Emperor looked at the wounded lying on felt blankets spread on the ground, and seeing the disorder and filth of the buildings they were housed in, his heart ached all the more.

Just as he was about to turn and rebuke Chen Qiyu, the Chongzhen Emperor caught sight of the looks some of the wounded were giving him, and swallowed the words he had been about to speak.

In these times, light wounds on the battlefield were fine—the scars of war were enough to brag about for a lifetime, and one gained an unforgettable experience. But the severely wounded had it hard. Healing with disability was already a blessing rarely encountered; most people died in agony amid their wails—extremely pitiful.

When the Chongzhen Emperor stepped into the building, many of the severely wounded lying on the felt had already lost all breath, their bodies utterly still. Some had the felt beneath them soaked through with blood, the very ground stained a dark purple-black.

As for those struck by cannonballs on the battlefield or hacked in the limbs and head by blade and spear, they were even more horrific to behold. The Chongzhen Emperor walked past each wounded man in turn, seeing that many of the dead still had their mouths open, their expressions twisted in agony.

Even though the Chongzhen Emperor from a later age had a somewhat cynical streak, seeing this scene still made his eyes redden. He had only walked a few steps when he heard someone desperately crying out a title. He hurried over and saw a lightly wounded soldier shaking a severely wounded man whose breath was faint, weeping and shouting.

This lightly wounded soldier seemed to have had good luck—his wound was on his arm, just a flesh wound. But the brother he was crying for had no such luck: he had lost an eye, his face covered in dried blood, and his chest split open by a gash deep enough to show bone—clearly he had fought through a bloody battle before dying unyieldingly.

The brother this soldier cried for had very faint breath. Anyone with eyes could tell that not even an immortal descending to earth could save him now. His consciousness was already fading, his lips slightly parted, as if desperately trying to say something.

The Chongzhen Emperor's heart clenched with pain. First he waved his hand to signal the others to keep their distance, then, heedless of the blood and dirt on the felt, he braced one hand on it, leaned his ear close, and listened intently.

This severely wounded man had only one eye left, so the Chongzhen Emperor had no way of knowing whether he could even see him. He could only hear him repeating a few words in an extremely faint voice:

"The Emperor has come... the Emperor has come......"