Chapter 368: Ten Days

The night deepened — the second watch of the yin hour.

In a river valley thirty li from the main Hetian battlefield, a massive army was marching by torchlight through the night.

Their fighting strength was barely four thousand, yet they rode or led nearly ten thousand donkeys and mules, forming an eight-column line that packed the broad official road — wide enough for four horse-drawn carts abreast — so tightly that not a drop of water could squeeze through.

Lightly equipped scout cavalry leading their warhorses stood at ten-pace intervals along the column's flanks, raising torches for light; the night wind kicked up dust, making the torch flames flicker bright and dim, and amid the muffled thunder of hooves shaking the earth, column after column swept swiftly past them.

The torchlight picked out face after expressionless face; they rode with eyes closed on the backs of donkeys and mules, and no one could tell whether they were awake or asleep.

All one could see was how utterly relaxed these soldiers' bodies were, swaying with the rise and fall of the donkeys' and mules' backs — torsos tilting forward, then back, then left, then right — and just when it seemed they would topple off, they slowly straightened again.

Only after a full three rows of donkeys and mules — twelve men — had passed did a single pair of open eyes appear; by the light of the scout cavalry's torches, the man tore at dried meat in his hand, mixed it with parched flour and tipped it into his mouth to chew, and as he passed, he raised his waterskin from the donkey's back and inclined his body slightly toward the scout cavalry in silent acknowledgment, then passed on without a word.

Once the several hundred riders of the donkey-and-mule column had gone by, the column leading donkeys and mules on foot followed; the soldiers marching at a quick pace all had their eyes open, but most looked no different than if they were shut — their pupils reflected the firelight without any spark of awareness; on the surface they were awake, but in truth their minds had already shut down, only their bodies still moving mechanically.

This state could not last long, however; a stumble on a small pebble in the road or a bump against a comrade would jolt a man suddenly awake, and seeing that the column had not veered off course and he himself had not tumbled into a ditch, he would carry on walking in a daze, only to repeat the whole process a while later.

Not until they had marched a great distance and an officer gave the order would both infantry and cavalry soldiers snap fully awake — those on foot mounted the donkeys, those riding dismounted and walked, and the silent march continued.

Wang Wenxiu sat his horse on an earthen slope beyond the official road, watching the army pass him in silence; by the torchlight his bodyguards raised, he looked down at the dispatch a scout cavalryman had delivered, and a moment later handed the letter to a guard, took up paper and brush, wrote a brief reply, and passed it to the scout rider: "Tell the Grand Commander: the infantry battalion guarantees it will reach the front line by the chen hour, and upon arrival it can charge straight into the fray."

Then he reined his horse forward and said, "Pass the word to the chiliarch headquarters: advance at double pace; rest one quarter-hour after fifteen li."

The letter was from Liu Chengzong — nothing special, merely informing him of the situation at the front and expressing appreciation for the trained infantry battalion's toil in marching through the night.

Such a march held nothing unusual for Wang Wenxiu; he had received his transfer order eighty li from the front, and though they were marching at night, it hardly counted as pressing on through both day and night — they had moved at a very leisurely pace during the daylight hours.

In the two days since Lintao Regional Commander Wang Cheng'en had been routed, sporadic skirmishes still broke out occasionally on the western side of the river valley, but those scattered deserters fleeing in all directions no longer required the infantry battalion to deal with them.

Especially after Dai Daozi led the Mongol cavalry detachment to complete the encirclement, with three thousand Mongol troops joining in, coordinating with Zhong Hu's cavalry to mop up and accept the surrender of remnant enemies proved highly efficient; later on, they did not even need ropes — the routed soldiers from the Lintao garrison sought them out to surrender.

How to put it — routed soldiers, sometimes they scatter and band together as bandits, wreaking havoc on local order, but at other times there are surprises.

For instance, in the Hetian region right now, routed soldiers who had lost their organization had become the truly vulnerable group.

To their west was Liu Chengyun, looking to accept surrendering routed troops; to their east was Dai Daozi, leading Mongol cavalry in trussing up captives.

And in the mountainous areas to both north and south, the countryside was thick with common folk trying to kill them.

Routed soldiers are like a river — when their numbers swell, they become a flood, and common folk drown in the deluge; but Yu the Great knew how to control floods, and simple common folk likewise know how to fish in the river.

A routed soldier carrying arms and armor had enough gear on his entire body for common folk to sell and exchange for a year's worth of grain.

Here and now in Hetian, compared to the common folk brimming with entrepreneurial zeal, even the fiendishly ferocious Zhong Hu looked kindly and approachable.

Wang Wenxiu had no need to pursue or guard routed troops, so the condition of his infantry battalion's soldiers was excellent.

Moreover, because quite a few of the donkeys used on the battlefield to shield against firearms and cannon had died, their meals over the past two days had greatly improved compared to normal; morale was sky-high, and everyone was ready to throw themselves into the next battle.

On the front line at the other side of the river valley, within a square formation ringed by dim firelight, He Huchen, who had not slept a wink all night, paced back and forth through the ranks, comforting the soldiers in each small unit and boosting their morale.

But how much good this level of encouragement could do, even He Huchen did not know.

Throughout the first half of the night, the enemy's artillery had behaved as if possessed, firing with no discernible pattern whatsoever; in four double-hours, nearly two hundred blindly fired cannonballs had landed inside the formation, costing him and Yang Qi thirty-seven soldiers — including a centurion — and one horse.

When a volley of cannonballs smashed into the formation and the soldiers tried to snatch a nap between salvos, they had barely closed their eyes before the next volley arrived; yet when they stared wide-eyed waiting for the next salvo, a full half double-hour would pass with no sound of cannon at all.

The process of war is waiting.

Waiting for the next cannonade, waiting for the next assault.

In the long wait, the soldiers' morale was slowly ground down; still, Liu Chengzong had at least done He Huchen one favor.

That horse killed by a cannonball allowed the soldiers to boil a thin, barely-better-than-nothing meat-scrap soup with the water; fortunately, the Hetian river valley was crisscrossed with irrigation ditches, and the Huang River was close at hand — yet even so, He Huchen knew his men could not hold out much longer.

He had never known that Han people, combined with Mongols and Western Tibetans, could form such a bizarre coalition.

All night long, apart from the shelling, the most soul-chilling thing was that from every direction around the army formation, at any moment, a corner might erupt with the eerie overtone singing of Mongols, the uncanny spirit-invoking chants of Western Tibetans, or the terrifying suona horns of Han soldiers and the rumble of war chariots grinding across the earth.

When their soldiers scrambled in panic to seize their weapons and prepare for an assault, the outside would fall silent, banners furled and drums stilled, utterly quiet.

Just when people had finally managed to relax, a crackling volley of gunfire would ring out; the oversized lead balls might hit someone, or they might not.

But whether they hit or not, it was infuriating, because the soldiers who came under fire all reported that whenever they returned fire, they never once heard the sound of an enemy being struck.

Those large lead balls were being fired from at least a hundred and fifty paces away.

It was absolutely maddening.

He Huchen made a circuit through the army and returned to the right-wing command post. He said to his son He Zan, "We cannot wait until morning. Morale is too low to hold our ground — we must find a way to break out."

He Zan had stayed up the night before last with the household retainers to keep watch for his father, and had only slept one double-hour the previous morning; by now he was so exhausted he was barely coherent. Hearing He Huchen speak, he responded instinctively in a daze, "What Father says is right."

Only after he reacted did he snap fully awake and say, "What did Father say? Break out?"

They were surrounded on all sides by the enemy now — this was no situation for a breakout!

Even without looking at the immediate vicinity, looking farther afield, to the west was Liu Chengzong's main battle line, where breaking through would be extremely difficult; even if they broke out to the east, that cavalry detachment that had raided their main camp was still there, meaning they would have to break through twice.

To the north and south were unfamiliar mountain ranges; even in daylight, breaking through mountainous terrain would be hard, and if they plunged into the hills at night, by dawn this army would not even need the enemy to strike — they would either be hanging from trees or fallen off cliffs, finished on their own.

Given this situation, He Zan asked, "Where do we break out to?"

Truth be told, He Huchen himself did not know where to break out to. His resolve and confidence had been worn away by repeated blunders, and now he was utterly indecisive.

With He Zan's question, he began doubting himself all over again.

With a thunderous boom, another round of cannon fire echoed through the river valley; several cannonballs landed inside the formation, one of them striking the ground only a few paces from where He Huchen and He Zan stood talking, the clods of earth it kicked up actually striking both men in the face.

Before they could recover from the sudden shock, a piercing, wretched scream rang out from the camp — someone had been hit by a cannonball, and was not yet dead.

To be hit by a musket ball and survive is unquestionably good luck, but to be struck by a cannonball and not die — no one knows whether that should count as good luck or bad.

If the luck is good, the man will suffer terribly for a long time and end up a cripple; if the luck is bad, it will all be futile torment for days, and in the end he will still die.

The He father and son had no mind to discuss anything else; they followed the sound at a run and found many soldiers gathered around the wounded man — he was one of the army's drummers.

His small drum had been smashed to pieces by the cannonball, and his hip bone had been pierced through. As soon as He Huchen drew near, before he could even think of what to say, the drummer caught sight of him and suddenly, as if possessed by a god, was filled with strength; he twisted and crawled across the ground, seized the hem of He Huchen's armored skirt in a death grip, and spoke through convulsions: "Commander... Lord Commander, take me back... back to Zhongwei!"

He Huchen hastily crouched down. "Back. Back to Zhongwei."

The drummer forced his face into a painful smile and slowly released his grip.

Before He Huchen could say anything more, from the northwest corner of the formation came again the low overtone chanting of Mongol soldiers, accompanied by the shrill blare of suona horns, and in the night a volley of gunfire rang out, cutting short all attempts to comfort this hopelessly wounded man.

A brief skirmish immediately followed; men turned their cannons toward the darkness where the firing had come from and let loose, a hail of grapeshot and musket balls fired back in reply. He Huchen also hurried back to the command post, terrified that this was the harbinger of a major enemy assault.

Yet it was only another feint; a short moment later, silence returned outside.

By the time He Huchen went back to look for that wounded soldier, he found the soldiers all standing in place. Even when they saw him, none of them saluted — they only called out the two words "Grand Marshal" in low, heavy voices.

When he pushed through the crowd and stepped into the center, that soldier had already breathed his last.

Though the drum-holder, as if in a final flash of lucidity, had let him carry him back toward Ningxia Central Garrison, he could not endure the pain. In the end, he mustered all his remaining strength and used his wrist-cutting knife to slash his own throat.

He Huchen's spirits sank. He said nothing. Returning to the central command, he waved a hand for the guards beside him to douse the torches, hiding his entire frame in the shadows. Though he still stood, his spine had collapsed.

Bring him back to Central Garrison.

He was the thirty-eighth soldier to die in battle this pre-dawn, and all they had was a single horsehide dripping with fresh blood.

Even if He Huchen turned his entire army inside out, he could not find a second mat to wrap a corpse in. How was he supposed to bring this drum-holder back to Central Garrison!

He was not overwhelmed with grief — he only felt despair at his own helplessness.

The drum-holder could not return to Central Garrison. None of them could go back.

But the battle gave him not the slightest chance to reveal his emotions. A man in the midst of war does not deserve to have emotions. Barely a quarter-hour passed before another bombardment struck again.

This time, two cannonballs landed squarely in the trench, smashing one man dead and wounding five more soldiers.

More death, and still more gloom, shrouded the heart of every man in the formation, until the light of day began to pale the sky.

Just before sunrise, the Assistant Regional Commander stationed at the rear formation suddenly came running over, his face a mix of shock and joy. Turning and pointing east, he said he had seen the glow of torches.

He Huchen hurried over. In the distance to the east, it was exactly as his subordinate had said: in the deep blue half-light of early morning, amid a vast stretch of shadow, a hazy firelight was slowly spreading in this direction.

For an instant, a look of wild delight flashed across his face, then was immediately reined in. He hastily sent men over. Seeing Mongol soldiers roaming in scattered groups of three and five to the east, he hurriedly ordered two cavalrymen to take six warhorses and break through, to see whether it was You Shilu leading troops over.

But the two cavalrymen had only just ridden out when He Huchen's heart sank to the very bottom… The Mongol riders paid the two cavalrymen no heed whatsoever, showing not the slightest intention of stopping them.

That hazy shadow halted in the distance. Only after a long while did the two men and six horses yield a single dejected soldier who returned, prostrated himself before He Huchen, and said, his face full of despair: "Grand Marshal, there are no reinforcements. That is the enemy. The enemy commander says he is Yang Yao, Assistant Regional Commander of the Marshal's Headquarters. Marshal You… Marshal You has fled, fled back to Lanzhou."

Near daybreak, beneath a pale blue sky, visibility in the river valley was very poor. His face weary, Yang Yao rode on horseback, leading his troops slowly forward at a restrained pace. From yesterday evening to this morning, this night had been even longer for him than it had been for He Huchen.

What wretched luck.

Yang Yao had attacked eastward and achieved virtually no results — he had failed to take the head of a single senior officer.

He knew that Yansui Garrison had a man named He Renlong. Up on the earthen fort's wall, Liu Chengzong had even specially used a telescope to let him see from a distance what He Renlong looked like.

But he had never imagined that He Renlong could run that fast.

The fire at the government army's main camp was not set by him. He had just approached the camp when the fire started burning on its own. The government troops left to guard the camp fled east like a gust of wind.

Yang Yao charged into Shantai and found it empty. Leaving Battalion Commander Yang Chengzu to put out the fires, he led his troops in pursuit of the retreating government forces. He chased them for forty li, but only caught up with two Native Battalion Commanders — he simply could not catch the fleeing enemy main force.

At the closest point, he could even see He Renlong, one man leading six horses, dragging You Shilu along in flight — but he just could not catch up.

Pursuing them all the way to the river mouth, he even spotted He Yong, an old acquaintance from Lion Camp, who rode his horse up a hillside and shouted loudly: "General, stop chasing! Thank you, General, for sparing our lives!"

When Yang Yao sent his mounted troops to chase He Yong, this head retainer proved just as fleet-footed as his master.

Fortunately, when he returned, Yang Chengzu, who came from a roving bandit background, had done a fine job putting out the fires at the main camp. He had not used water to douse the flames. Instead, he first had his two Battalion Commander squads wade into the river, then rush up onto Shantai, drag the fire-kindling tents and padded jackets aside, and salvage over two thousand dan of grain and fodder.

That grain nearly made Yang Yao choke with rage. The fire had burned fiercely, but less than a tenth of the grain had turned to charcoal. That meant the government army's main camp had only stored enough grain to eat their fill for ten days — and with that little grain, the government troops still dared to fight a battle?

On the other hand, the captured weapons, armor, equipment, warhorses, donkeys, and mules were plentiful.

Because of that paltry amount of grain, Yang Yao did not even rest at the earthen fort on the march west. He disarmed the captives and made them carry the grain as they headed west. On the road, he ran into Zhong Bao, who was recruiting the wounded soldiers from the earthen fort to surrender. He simply let the captives eat a proper meal and told them: follow the Grand Marshal, and you won't go hungry from now on.

After another twenty li of marching, not a single one of the more than four thousand captives caused any trouble.

When the three armies completed their assembly in the early morning, surrounding the government army's great formation on three sides, Yang Yao spurred his horse over to Liu Chengzong's side. Shaking his head, he said: "Grand Marshal, don't fight. Set up the cauldrons outside and start cooking. Call out to them — demand their surrender!"