Chapter 1442: The First Artillery Volley

Although the Zhao Army's cannons had first bombarded the most threatening Jianzhou artillery position instead of directly shelling the main formation, they could not simply wait to be hit before retreating at the last moment — that would cause utter chaos. Yet in this freezing wind, the horses had moved little while standing in formation and were chilled through. If they broke into a full gallop right away, it would easily cause the mounts to cramp and fall. In such a tight formation, that would directly throw the entire force into disorder, and in a great battle like this, disorder meant disaster.

So they had to start at a trot, closing the distance while warming up the horses, then pick up speed and finally charge. The Jianzhou Jurchens and Mongol cavalry were veterans of countless battles, and this common knowledge was understood from top to bottom.

The rumbling of hooves grew louder and louder. Birds in the woods on the eastern hill were startled into flight — this was an unnatural noise, one they had rarely ever heard.

The birds all fled as far from the battlefield as they could. Only the goshawk circling high above showed no reaction, for it flew too high.

From the goshawk's perspective looking down upon the earth, it was as if it saw a mudslide unleashed by a flash flood, as if it saw a deluge bursting forth from a breached dam. The great cavalry force of the Jianzhou Jurchens was like a mighty tidal wave, surging forward to smash everything before it to pieces.

Compared to such a vast and overwhelming cavalry momentum, the Zhao Army's formation looked utterly flimsy — it could hardly be called an obstacle at all, and might even be crushed to bits.

The goshawk caught the air currents as best it could, spiraling upward, trying as hard as possible to avoid what lay below. It had never experienced such a scene before, and its instincts told it that below was far too dangerous.

"Orders from the division commander: open fire at the closest range — one hundred and fifty paces!"

"Then make it one hundred and forty paces!"

"At one hundred and forty paces, the Tartars will definitely be charging right at us!"

"Let them charge! We've got firelocks and pikes to hold them off — we can't hog everything for ourselves!"

At the Zhao Army's artillery position, the battalion commander and the company commanders below were shouting back and forth. The artillerymen were making rapid preparations. Despite the freezing cold, most of them had stripped off their padded jackets and leather robes, working up such a feverish sweat that they could not keep their heavy clothes on.

The Jianzhou Jurchen cavalry began to pick up speed. Riding within a great force of hundreds, of thousands, with the thunder of hooves in their ears, seeing strong men and sturdy horses all around them, seeing blades and bows gleaming, the fear and unease they had felt before battle gradually dissolved, leaving only brimming confidence. Heroic passion surged from the depths of their hearts and flooded their entire bodies.

Every cavalryman felt himself utterly indestructible, convinced that no troops under heaven could possibly withstand such a charge. And reality bore this out — these cavalrymen had all fought in many battles, and many formations had crumbled before such charges. In truth, they often crumbled even before the charge drew near.

The reason the Jurchen and Mongol cavalry had not yet loosed any long war cries or howls was that a trace of unease still lingered in their hearts. The distance had closed to two hundred paces, yet that loose-looking infantry formation still did not move. They saw no one throwing down their weapons and fleeing in terror, no sign of the panic and disorder that a cavalry charge should provoke. Motionless — they were simply motionless.

The company and platoon commanders recalled those rumors: the Zhao Army's iron formation was like a mountain, utterly immovable. There had to be something wrong here; this defied all common sense. Perhaps they simply were not close enough yet. Once they drew nearer, no one could possibly stand firm — of that they were certain.

After warming up over several hundred paces, the horses were now running. The riders loosened their reins, and the horses' instinct to chase one another began to take hold. Their speed increased steadily. Ahead there were no gleaming spikes, no trenches or wooden walls — only a loose wall of men that posed no real obstacle. The horses ran faster and faster.

The front ranks of firelock soldiers could not form up tightly. Firing a firelock required considerable space, and the ammunition each soldier carried on his person could easily be ignited by the comrade beside him — they had to keep some distance.

Without a tight formation, without the confidence that came from standing shoulder to shoulder, without reliance and coercion, it was far harder for the firelock soldiers to stand firm than the pikemen. But they had faith in their volley fire, in the density of firepower their rotating volleys could achieve. Still, watching that wall of cavalry charge closer at terrifying speed, they could not help the tension that gripped them.

The saying that Mongol horses were only the size of donkeys was an exaggeration. Moreover, many of the horses ridden by the Jianzhou Jurchens and their Mongol allies were the relatively taller and sturdier Liao horses, which made them all the more terrifying. And the Zhao Army's infantrymen had never faced a cavalry charge of this scale before.

"Iron formation like a mountain" — that was the iron formation of old. When the distance closed to within two hundred paces, then rapidly to a hundred and several tens of paces, the Jianzhou cavalrymen at the front grew excited. They noticed that the loose formation before them was beginning to stir and waver. A loose formation could fall into chaos especially fast. Was victory already within their grasp?

At that very moment, men were roaring and shouting, horses were neighing, and hooves thundered like rolling thunder. The Jianzhou Jurchen cavalry could not make out any sound around them.

Perhaps there was thunder. Perhaps there was a muffled rumble. There was indeed thunder. There was indeed a muffled rumble. This roar was not unfamiliar to them — it was the Zhao Army opening fire with their cannons. So many cannons firing at once, the sound of the guns drowned out everything else.

The artillery batteries at the position had long since completed their preparations to fire. From the three-pounder to the sixteen-pounder, every cannon's elevation had been adjusted to the proper angle, and the powder charges had been measured accordingly. Beside each cannon stood a soldier ready with the linstock, every man staring intently ahead.

The ranging company commander held a red flag, while soldiers beside him held two wooden staves, their eyes locked dead on the great Jianzhou cavalry force. The staves crossed and moved ceaselessly — this was range estimation by eye.

The roar of the great Jianzhou cavalry force already filled the battlefield. No shouted commands could be heard; they could only watch and wait. The red flag waved — the signal to fire was given. The Zhao Army's cannons erupted one after another.

Three-pounders, six-pounders, nine-pounders, twelve-pounders, sixteen-pounders — the larger the caliber, the further back the cannon was placed, and the higher its muzzle elevation. Only the Zhao Army's cannons could adjust their firing angles so flexibly — or rather, could be elevated so conveniently.

The cannonballs screamed through the air. Metal spheres weighing several catties, over a dozen catties, tore apart and pulverized everything in their path, then struck the ground, bounced up, and tore apart everything in their path once more.

The Zhao Army's artillery position was at the upper right corner of the formation, its fire sweeping diagonally across the charging Jianzhou cavalry. As the Jurchen and Mongol horsemen galloped forward, suddenly parts of men and horses simply vanished. Some collapsed; some, impossibly, still carried forward by inertia, stumbled a few more steps, blood and flesh spraying — this was the carnage wrought by the lighter guns.

Bodies were smashed apart and severed outright by the cannonballs, while the horses' torsos bent into grotesque shapes. The corpses of men and horses that fell in front tripped up the cavalry comrades charging behind them. In a formation of ten thousand galloping horses, to be unable to move with the main body and fall to the ground like that was a horrific fate — trampled into bloody paste by one's own comrades.

The power unleashed by the twelve- and sixteen-pounders was even more terrifying. Before the heavy cannonballs, the human body was no obstacle, of course, but even the solid torso of a horse offered no possibility of resistance — even a horse was cut in two by a single shot. Seen from a distance, chunks of human and horse flesh were blasted straight into the air, then crashed heavily back to earth.

The cannonballs tore through the bodies of men and horses, struck the ground, bounced up from the iron-hard frozen earth, then continued to rip through flesh and blood along their flight path, until finally they struck the ground and lay still. The initial carnage was violent, but afterward it was horse legs being sheared off one after another, horses screaming as they tumbled, taking their riders with them, throwing the entire formation into utter chaos.

After all, they had opened fire only at one hundred and fifty paces. The artillerymen had elevated their guns as much as possible. The Jianzhou cavalrymen charging at the very front had actually been spared the earth-shattering bombardment, but they had already been scared out of their wits by this heaven-rending cataclysm. They could only lash their horses desperately forward. The infantry formation ahead was loose — if they could just charge through, they would be safe.

Watching the enemy cavalry abruptly thin out, the Zhao Army's firelock ranks, which had been somewhat restless, grew calm. A cavalry charge of this scale was nothing they had not faced before. The Ming cavalry was in no way inferior to the Jianzhou cavalry; where the Ming truly fell short of the Jianzhou Jurchens was in their infantry.

"Fire!" This command was shouted purely by instinct. On a battlefield like this, no sound could be clearly heard anymore.

The firelock soldiers saw the signal flag wave and immediately pulled their triggers. The match cords ignited the priming powder, the firelocks discharged, and one after another, the guns spat out white smoke.

No one looked to see the effect of their shot. The moment they fired, they grabbed their firelock and fork rest and turned around, letting the comrade behind them step forward.

This rotating volley had been drilled to flawless proficiency. Once the Zhao Army's firelocks began firing, there was no pause — rank after rank advanced, rank after rank fell back.

At a distance of a few dozen paces, they unleashed a dense rain of metal shot. It might not have been as earth-shaking and terrifying as the cannons, but a lead ball the size of a fingertip was more than enough to kill and maim. The charging Jianzhou Jurchen cavalrymen toppled one after another within those few dozen paces. The galloping horses fell, sliding forward on their momentum, coming to a halt a few dozen paces from the Zhao Army's front line, twitching and struggling. Before long, a low wall of human and horse flesh and blood had formed.

No matter how fierce and brave, no matter how strong the men and sturdy the horses, none could surmount this "wall." Had it been the full cavalry force from moments before, even if those in front fell, those behind would not have dared to retreat. Anyone who turned or wheeled around would surely have been crushed to pieces in that torrent of cavalry. With such an endless surge charging forward, the Zhao Army's firelocks might not have been able to keep up — the enemy might have reached their line.

But that rolling torrent had been severed by the cannon fire. The charging cavalry very quickly "ran dry." Those in front suffered hideous casualties, while those behind hesitated, unwilling to advance, wanting to wait for the comrades further back to catch up. Even now they dared not flee wildly. Though the cannon fire had ceased, seeing that ground covered in mangled flesh and gore, hearing the shrieks and wails — it was a living hell of blood and slaughter. No one dared enter it. Nor did they dare move recklessly to either side: one side was snowdrifts and the seashore, the other was the Zhao Army's artillery position — both seemed like dead ends.

More critically, the Jianzhou Jurchen cavalry still believed the situation was salvageable. The Zhao Army's cannons had now all fired. Based on the experience of the artillery duel just moments ago, it would be a long time before they could fire a second volley. Though the ground was littered with flesh and corpses like a hell of blood, the bulk of the cavalry force had suffered no losses. This bombardment zone could be crossed quickly. Then, if they risked death to charge through the firelock barrage, victory would be at hand.