Chapter 134: Kill Them All, No Matter How Many Come-Iron-Blooded Ming Dynasty(The Lonely Swordsman)

Within the city of Datong, the garrison was already prepared for battle.

Wang Pu had Zhao Liujin’s three thousand Datong border troops divided into three squads to guard the North, West, and South gates. He also had Zhao Xin lead fifteen platoons of one hundred men each, likewise divided into three squads, to assist in the city's defense. To boost morale and bolster the soldiers' spirits, Wang Pu promised that regardless of whether the Jiannu launched their attack from the North, West, or South gates, every man would be rewarded with one hundred taels of silver after they were repelled.

Wang Pu’s firearm battalion consisted of fifty platoons. Excluding the fifteen taken by Zhao Xin, the remaining thirty-five platoons and Xiao Qi’s five hundred personal guards were all assembled at the East Gate. The Bearded One and Scarface each led five hundred men to hold the city walls on either side of the breach, while the remaining three thousand troops gathered inside the gap.

The open space within the breach had been transformed by Wang Pu into a slaughterhouse for the Jiannu. The previous night, Wang Pu had Wei Daben lead over ten thousand civilians in a full night of labor to modify and reinforce the fortifications. The shoulder-high wall was moved back thirty paces and was no longer parallel to the city wall; instead, it was built as a circular defensive fortification with the breach at its center.

Wei Daben and the civilians had also dug a large, semi-circular pit within the ring of fortifications. The pit was shallow at the center and deep at the edges, reaching a depth of two meters near the wall. This, combined with the height of the low wall, created a barrier over three meters high. Without tools, it would not be easy for the Jiannu to scale it by hand. Furthermore, it would be even harder for them to reach the base of this wall through the breach.

This semi-circular pit, with a radius of fifty paces, a raised center, and a sunken edge, was the slaughterhouse Wang Pu had meticulously prepared. Zhen Youcai estimated that the pit could hold thirty to fifty thousand bodies before it would be filled.

The blood-stained military flag was planted atop the semi-circular fortification. Because it held special significance, Wang Pu had allowed it to remain in its original, rough state—untrimmed and without streamers. The only difference was that the blood-dyed cross pattern had faded from its initial vibrant red to a deep, dark crimson. Yet, compared to the bright red of the beginning, this dark hue carried a greater sense of gravity and solemnity.

Lü Liu and ten musketeers stood tall and proud beside the banner. Wang Pu had once said that this flag was the soul of the army; wherever the flag stood, he stood, and there the army would be. The flag lived as long as the people did; if the people perished, so did the flag. Unless the entire army was wiped out, this blood-stained banner would never fall into enemy hands.

Under the fluttering flag, Wang Pu stood tall in his military attire. Before him, three thousand musketeers stood in perfect formation, their murderous gazes fixed upon him. Outside Datong, the thunderous roar of cannons had not yet faded, and dust still churned above the ruined walls. The clamor of thousands of Jiannu echoed across the sky, but none of this could shake the firearm battalion. Even the raw recruits had hardened into seasoned veterans through fierce battles against rebels and the Jiannu.

The north wind was biting, and the smell of gunpowder lingered. Although the chill of early spring still shrouded Datong, the soldiers felt a scorching killing intent radiating from Wang Pu’s eyes—a heat intense enough to sear the soul.

Wang Pu took a deep breath, his burning gaze sweeping over the faces of his men. He bellowed, "Last August, at Songshan, many told me that the Jiannu were formidable, that their Eight Banners were invincible, and that our Ming army could never defeat them!"

A look of defiance flashed in the eyes of the three thousand soldiers. They refused to accept that the Jiannu were invincible.

"They said that at the Battle of Sarhu, we were defeated; at Fushun, we were defeated; at Kai-Tie, we were defeated; and at Liaoyang and Shenyang, we were defeated. In less than twenty years, we lost vast stretches of Liaodong, and hundreds of thousands of our brothers died in the freezing wilderness beyond the passes. They claimed the Eight Banners were invincible!" Wang Pu paused and shouted, "Is that true?"

"No!"

The soldiers responded in a thunderous roar that reached the heavens.

"Well said! It is not true!" Wang Pu shouted, raising his arm. "I led a lonely force of only one thousand men and captured the Jiannu's lair in Shengjing. Was Hong Taiji’s personal guard of three thousand not formidable? Yet, my force of less than a thousand musketeers slaughtered them, leaving not a single one behind, and even Hong Taiji became my prisoner!"

The soldiers' eyes lit up with excitement.

"This time, the Jiannu have gathered an army of one hundred and fifty thousand to attack Datong. Again, some tell me they are invincible, that we cannot win, and that resistance is a dead end—that we might as well open the gates and surrender." Wang Pu’s tone turned sharp and fierce. "But I say, no! We will never surrender, and we will never fear the Jiannu!"

"We do not fear them!"

The soldiers roared, and the garrison on the walls, along with the civilians, women, and children crowding the streets, joined in with hysterical fervor. Wang Pu raised his hand, and the shouting stopped as if cut by a blade.

Wang Pu turned toward the breach, drew his sword, and held it high. "Let them come! We will kill as many as they send! Kill the slaves!"

"Kill the slaves!"

The roar of tens of thousands merged into a tidal wave of sound that pierced the clouds.

"First squad..." Amidst the mountain-shaking shouts, Zhang Heshang’s thunderous voice rang out. "Prepare!"

Two hundred musketeers stepped forward, spreading out along the semi-circular fortification. Two hundred muskets were leveled against the fortification, their dark muzzles aimed at the breach fifty paces away. Distributed in a ring, they formed a crossfire pattern. To avoid friendly fire, the sections closest to the walls were left unmanned, though those sections were built exceptionally high—any Jiannu attempting to bypass them would be met by the Dragon King cannons on the city walls.

As the battle cries swelled, the Jiannu finally reached the breach. The real slaughter began. Musketeers on the walls looked down to see the area beneath the wall densely packed with Jiannu, like ants. One could drop a stone and be certain to hit several.

However, the Jiannu were well-prepared. Those at the front carried heavy, thick shields. Thousands of these shields formed a solid wall that rendered light rocks and logs useless. Even the Dragon King cannons could only shatter a shield or two before another was pushed into place. Under the cover of this shield wall, the Jiannu poured toward the base of the wall, some beginning to tear it down while others charged the breach.

The Bearded One, seeing that the Dragon King cannons were losing effectiveness, remembered a tactic Wang Pu had taught. He roared to the musketeers behind him, "Someone, bring me more Dragon King cannons! I don't believe these bastards can't be blown to bits!"

Several musketeers handed him the explosives. The Bearded One grabbed seven or eight, tied them together with a rope, lit the fuses, and hurled the smoking bundle down. The weight was significant; the bundle slammed into the shield wall, tilting it and creating a gap. The explosives rolled underneath.

"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

Seven or eight cannons detonated simultaneously. Dozens of Jiannu were blown into the air along with their heavy shields. The shield wall was torn apart.

"Haha!" The Bearded One laughed. "Did you see that? Throw them like that! Blow these bastards to hell!"

The musketeers on the walls followed suit, tying bundles of cannons together and raining them down. Soon, the shield wall to the left of the breach was shattered.

However, the Jiannu were not without recourse. Their archers and the five Red Barbarian cannons commanded by Tong Yangxing in the distance inflicted heavy casualties on the Ming forces. One musketeer, having lit a bundle, was struck in the throat by an arrow just as he stood to throw it. He gasped, his eyes bulging, as the smoking bundle dropped at his feet.

"Poof!"

The eight bundled cannons exploded. Beside the dead musketeer, six others were torn apart by the blast, and a dozen more were blown off the wall into the chaotic ranks of the Jiannu below, where they were hacked to death.

The Bearded One also fell. Just after he had laughed at his successful shot, a shrill whistle passed over his head. He looked back toward the city just as a massive black plume of smoke erupted—a house had collapsed into rubble.

"Dammit, that’s an explosive shell from a Red Barbarian cannon!"

Before he could react, another whistle struck the wall right at his feet. War was merciless; the shell did not bypass him just because he was Wang Pu’s confidant. With a deafening roar, the Bearded One’s sturdy body was torn into countless fragments. Only his head remained intact, spinning through the air before landing outside the city, his eyes still wide open in death.

The Ming musketeers on the wall suffered heavy losses, but the Jiannu’s casualties were far greater. The two thousand Han-martial Eight Banners led by Shi Tingzhu and Li Yongfang, being closest to the wall, became the primary targets of the concentrated Dragon King cannons; more than half were already dead or wounded.

"General, the Ming firearm battalion’s cannons are too powerful. We can't hold!"
"Yes, let's retreat, or we'll all die here!"
"Damn it, we're doing all the dying while the Jiannu and Mongol Tatars hide in the back! We’re done!"

Seeing the heavy losses, several commanders urged Li Yongfang and Shi Tingzhu to retreat.

"Nonsense!" Li Yongfang, hiding behind a shield, roared in anger. "Shut up! Even if we all die here, we will not take a single step back!"

Li Yongfang had originally been a Ming guerrilla general who surrendered after Nurhaci took Fushun. He had once been favored, even marrying Nurhaci's daughter, but as the Jiannu grew stronger, he had been reduced to nothing more than a dog. Dorgon had given him a death order: if he failed to take Datong, there would be no returning to the camp alive. Retreat meant death; moving forward was the only hope for survival.

"Boom!"

As soon as Li Yongfang finished speaking, a bundle of cannons rolled near him and exploded. Li Yongfang and his guards were blown into the sky. His body was severed at the waist; his upper half landed on the shield wall, and he dragged himself forward for several paces, leaving a terrifying trail of blood before finally expiring.

The Mongol Eight Banners attacking the breach suffered equally. Under the crossfire, they struggled to reach the fortifications. After only half an hour of fighting, the pit was filled with their corpses. Wave after wave of Mongols charged, leaping over the bodies of their kin, but once off their horses, their strength vanished.

"Boom!"

Rows of bullets whistled through the air, mowing down the Mongols. Those who survived the volleys reached the three-meter-high wall, only to be blown apart by the Dragon King cannons thrown from behind the fortifications.

One Mongol managed to climb over by stepping on the shoulders of his comrades. A Ming battalion commander lunged at him, but the Mongol grabbed his ankle and dragged him down. They rolled to the ground, and the commander mounted him, pinning him down. As they struggled, the commander pulled a sharp dagger from his leg sheath and drove it toward the Mongol’s heart. The Mongol gripped the commander’s wrist, and they locked in a brutal test of strength.

The commander’s strength proved superior. Slowly, the dagger pierced the Mongol’s leather armor and sank into his chest. Amidst the deafening gunfire, the commander could hear the sound of the blade slicing through armor and flesh. The Mongol’s eyes turned from despair to terror. When the dagger sank two inches deep, the Mongol’s arms went limp. The commander drove the blade home, feeling it pierce the pulsing heart.

...

Outside Datong, in the Jiannu camp, all the princes, including Dorgon and Yoto, gathered in the command tent, waiting anxiously. Seven divisions, seventy thousand troops, had been committed to the battlefield.

Messengers arrived one after another, and the atmosphere grew heavy.

"Reporting... Li Yongfang is dead. The Han Eight Banners have suffered heavy losses. Shi Tingzhu requests to retreat."
"Refused!" Yoto snapped. "Tell him that even if he is the only one left, he is not to retreat."
"Reporting... The Khalkha tribes have suffered heavy losses. They request to retreat."
"Refused!" Yoto roared. "Tell those cowards that if they dare to retreat, the Eight Banners will trample their tribes into the dust."
"Reporting... The Khorchin tribe has suffered heavy losses. Prince Darhan Baturu requests to retreat."

Yoto went silent, looking at Dorgon. The other nobles exchanged stunned glances. The Khorchin were the last wave of the attack. If they were requesting a retreat, the day’s offensive had failed. Dorgon looked out of the tent; the sun had set. The fierce battle had lasted all day, and seventy thousand troops had failed to break the Ming defense.

Dorgon sighed. "Order them to retreat, count the losses, and see how many we have left."

Yoto hung his head in defeat. "I suppose we must."

Behind Dorgon, Fan Wencheng and Ning Wanwo sighed as well. They had expected casualties, but not this. The Eight Banners had been defeated! Since when had the Ming firearm battalion become so formidable?

If every city in the Ming Dynasty had such a battalion, what could the Qing do? They recalled how Wang Pu had captured Shengjing and Hong Taiji with only a thousand men—it was not mere luck. If Wang Pu had been born twenty years earlier, the Battle of Sarhu might have had a different outcome, and the Qing might never have existed.

As darkness fell, the horns sounded in the Jiannu camp. The troops outside the breach retreated like an ebbing tide. The gunfire and explosions ceased. The day-long battle was over.

Wang Pu ascended the wall, standing where the Bearded One had fallen. He looked down; the pit was half-filled with bodies, and the corpses were piled halfway up the city wall. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and blood.

On the ramparts, two musketeers lay dead. One was pierced by arrows, his feathers trembling in the evening wind; the other had been torn apart by the shell that killed the Bearded One. Young, empty-eyed, they would never wake again.

Wang Pu walked down into the empty space inside the wall. Scarface stood there, tears streaming down his face. A mountain of a man, he now wept like a child.

In front of Scarface, three hundred musketeers stood in a solemn line. One man, who had lost half his right leg, refused help and stood tall with his musket as a crutch—he was a musketeer, and he had his dignity.

Before them lay a white cloth, atop which rested a few charred fragments—a torso, two fingers, and a large foot. These were all that could be found of the Bearded One. Behind the cloth lay the bodies of the fallen, many mangled beyond recognition, some missing limbs just like the Bearded One.

Wang Pu felt a lump in his throat. Tears welled up, but he looked toward the sky, forcing them back. Even an iron-willed man had moments of tenderness.

"Salute!"

Scarface let out a hoarse, agonizing howl. The three hundred musketeers raised their muskets toward the sky and fired in unison. The thunderous volley shattered the silence of the night.

"Brothers, rest in peace."