Chapter 87: The Fall of Guihua-Iron-Blooded Ming Dynasty(The Lonely Swordsman)

By the time Wang Pu led the main body of cavalry to this settlement, night had already fallen.

More than a dozen yurts had been torn completely apart. Across the grassland lay scattered Mongol household goods, and Mongol corpses as well—old men, women, even children who had only just learned to walk. Not even the sheepdogs the Mongols kept had escaped death. It was extermination to the last, leaving neither man nor beast alive.

Zhang Heshang and his two hundred horsemen had long since departed. Their task was to clear away every scout and watcher along the route of the main force’s advance, and so they always kept a distance of five to ten li ahead.

Wang Pu glanced at the sky, then turned and shouted, “Pass the order. The army will make camp here tonight.”

“Yes, sir!”

Little Seven answered loudly and spurred away at once.

As Wang Pu’s orders were relayed, the soldiers dismounted one after another. After tethering their horses, they gathered in groups of three and five. The remaining yurts, along with the wooden carts and wagons the Mongols had left behind, were swiftly dismantled for fuel. Before long, heaps of bonfires were blazing beneath the night sky. Frames were set over the flames, and fat sheep, skinned and cleaned, were hung above them. In less than half an hour, the fragrance of roasting mutton drifted out across the steppe.

The weather beyond the frontier was bitterly cold. Galloping headlong into the wind could freeze a man stiff; even thick sheepskin coats could not keep out the sharp gusts that wormed their way inside. After a day of forced marching, both men and horses were utterly spent. Still, the soldiers’ morale remained fairly high. At the very least, tonight they would not have to gnaw dry rations.

Zhen Youcai curled his thin little body into a tight ball, trying to reduce as much as possible the part of himself exposed to the cutting wind. Then, while taking care not to let the bonfire scorch him, he edged as close to it as he could. Even so, he shivered violently and cursed through chattering teeth, “This damned place is cold as hell. If only there were a bowl of fiery liquor to drink...”

Little Seven, beside him, nodded eagerly. “The strong spirits from Liaodong really are like liquid fire. A couple swallows and you don’t feel the cold anymore. We in Datong can’t brew anything that fierce. Say, Mister Zhen, do you know how to make that burning liquor? If you do, when we get back, brew a few big jars for the brothers. Perfect for keeping out the winter cold.”

“Of course I do.” Zhen Youcai sounded pleased with himself. “Liaodong winters are frozen solid from end to end. Without strong liquor, you simply can’t endure them. Every household brews its own. My old Zhen family has lived in Liaodong for generations, making a living trading ginseng. We often had to go deep into the mountain forests for ten days or half a month at a time. Without fiery spirits, how could that possibly work?”

Little Seven smacked his lips. “Makes me want a couple burning swallows right now.”

Lu Six, sitting nearby, suddenly untied a sheepskin flask from his waist and held it out to Little Seven. “Brother Seven, I’ve got half a jin of Fen wine here. Want some?”

“Well now, Sixie.” Little Seven slapped him on the forehead. “If you had wine, why didn’t you say so earlier?”

Lu Six scratched his head and grinned foolishly. “Brother Seven, you didn’t say you wanted a drink. How was I supposed to know?”

Little Seven lifted the flask and was just about to drink when something occurred to him. He lowered it again and said to Wang Pu, “General, would you like a couple swallows first?”

“No need. You drink it.” Wang Pu had just finished tearing through a fat sheep’s leg, skin and meat together. He lay down beside the bonfire, pulled a tiger-skin cloak over himself, and without even raising his head said, “Tell the men that once they’ve eaten their fill, they’re to get some rest at once. We march at the fifth watch tomorrow.”

Guihua.

The predecessor of Guihua City was Bansheng City, built by Altan Khan of the Mongols and later bestowed its name by the Jiajing Emperor of the Great Ming. It was said that within the city there had once been seven tiers of audience halls and bedchambers, and three tiers of granaries in the southeast. Five layers of drip eaves crowned the walls. From this alone one could imagine the grandeur of its architecture in those days. But by the Chongzhen era, Guihua had suffered repeated wars, and its former magnificence had long since vanished without a trace.

Even the outer city walls had gone unrepaired for years; in many places they had collapsed.

Night deepened. In the city, rows upon rows of yurts glowed brilliantly with lamplight. Firelight cast the graceful silhouettes of Mongol women onto the felt walls, where they swayed lightly to the lingering, melodious strains of stringed music. Through the piercing cold wind came, faintly, the wanton laughter of Mongol men, mingled now and then with the silver-bell laughter of women.

Outside the tents, heaven and earth were locked in frost; inside, it was warm as spring. The nobles of the Tumed tribe hid away in their own tents, drinking kumis and watching their women sing and dance. In Altan Khan’s day, good relations with the Great Ming had brought the Mongols abundant material comforts, and with them the extravagant habits of Ming grandees had spread onto the grasslands. Ever since the rise of the Jurchens in Liaodong during the Wanli reign, the Ming court had been harried senseless by affairs in the east. For decades now it had sent no troops against the desert. And today, moreover, was the most important festival of the Han people, New Year’s Day. Just as Wang Pu and Zhen Youcai had guessed, the Tumed never imagined that Ming troops would choose such a moment to march.

Like all Mongol tribes, the Tumed followed water and pasture. They were nomads to the core. Though Altan Khan, while ruling the Mongols, had built many Bansheng cities in the Tumed River plain, those had merely served as fixed residences for Tumed nobles. The common herdsmen still wandered the boundless grasslands with their flocks.

Among nomads, all men were soldiers by custom. In ordinary times, these herdsmen lived scattered across the vast steppe. Only when war was at hand would the tribal chiefs send out the summons to gather them. Then, in an instant, they would change from herdsmen into fierce and battle-hardened Mongol cavalry.

The Tumed never dreamed that Ming troops would come raiding, and naturally no summons had been sent beforehand to gather the herdsmen scattered across the grasslands. The standing force stationed in Guihua numbered only four hundred Mongol horsemen, the personal guard of the Tumed Khan. After Hong Taiji conquered the Mongols, he laid down explicit regulations governing the size of each tribal chief’s personal guard.

The night was deep, and the north wind blew hard.

The Tumed Khan’s four hundred personal riders had retired early into their warm yurts and were by now sunk in heavy sleep. Only the four gate towers still had men on watch, and even that was merely ceremonial. The sole purpose of posting sentries there was to guard against wild beasts.

The cold moon hung in the sky like a hook, solitary and remote. All the land below lay in blackness.

The shadow of death was drawing slowly toward Guihua beneath the dim moonlight, yet the Tumed sentries on the towers remained wholly unaware. The bitter wind smothered every faint sound.

With a hiss, a sharp wolf-fang arrow shot suddenly from the dark void and pierced a Tumed sentry clean through the throat. His body jerked violently. Then he slowly raised both hands, trying to pull the arrow from his neck, but before they reached halfway they fell limply back down.

He tried desperately to cry out, but from his torn throat came only a faint hissing.

In the raging wind, the sturdy sentry’s body swayed once, then toppled in collapse. Almost at the same instant he struck the ground, two black shapes climbed over the battlements and landed lightly beside him. In a final flash of returning consciousness, the sentry’s eyes widened, filled with disbelief.

They were soldiers of the Great Qing.

Why would Great Qing troops come to raid Guihua?

Endless darkness swept in and swallowed his soul whole. Until the instant of his death, he never understood why the soldiers of the Great Qing had come to attack Guihua City.

Outside Guihua City, Wang Pu sat his horse in the cutting wind, stern and motionless. Behind him stood more than two thousand cavalrymen of the Great Ming, a dark mass under the night sky. Every horse had been muzzled; not a sound was heard. The soldiers had already drawn their sharp sabers, and they gleamed in the darkness like the cold fangs of beasts that had scented prey.

Perhaps the Tumed had been too careless. Perhaps Wang Pu’s luck had been extraordinarily good. Whatever the reason, his four thousand troops had already reached the outskirts of Guihua without ghost or god perceiving them, and it was only just past midnight.

Wang Pu decided to launch the assault that very night.

People said that a man’s strength and vigor were limited, but when human beings were seized by a certain fever, they could overstep the bounds of both body and spirit. Wang Pu believed the four thousand officers and men under his command were more than fevered enough, for inside Guihua lay the things they wanted—women, cattle and sheep, and a vast quantity of gold, silver, and jewels.

To rouse the marching zeal of these old hardened veterans, Wang Pu had promised them that once they broke into Guihua, they would have one full night in which they could do as they pleased.

In an instant, the tightly shut eastern gate of Guihua swung slowly open. Zhang Heshang and Cheng Xuan leaned out from within the gate, waving torches with all their strength.

Facing the wind, Wang Pu shouted sharply, “Little Seven!”

Little Seven spurred forward at once. “Here!”

Wang Pu barked, “Pass the order immediately to Big Beard, Scarface, and Tang Sheng: deploy the musket companies to hold the north, west, and south gates. Not a single person is to escape!”

“Yes, sir!”

Little Seven answered at full voice and turned to dispatch the messengers.

In the blink of an eye, nine mounted guards galloped off in three different directions. Wang Pu drew his saber with a ringing sound, raised it high overhead, and cried out in a harsh voice, “Break Guihua! Leave not even a chicken or dog alive!”

“Break Guihua! Leave not even a chicken or dog alive!”

The more than two thousand riders behind him roared in answer. Their surging cries shattered the deathly silence of the winter night, and in the next moment Wang Pu’s saber swept lightly forward. The two thousand Ming horsemen, who had long since grown impatient, burst ahead like floodwaters from a breached dam, pouring toward the gates of Guihua.

The Khan’s great tent.

The Tumed Khan and several nobles were still reveling in the vigorous songs and dances of Mongol girls when suddenly deafening cries rose from outside the tent, followed at once by the thunder of hooves shaking the earth. At once the Tumed Khan and the nobles in the tent changed color. By the sound of it, thousands upon thousands of horsemen were charging down upon Guihua.

“What is this? What’s happened?”

The Tumed Khan sprang to his feet and threw aside the tent flap. Outside, a dozen or so warriors looked at one another in confusion, for they too had no idea what had happened. Furious, the Tumed Khan shouted, “Go and see at once! Find out what in heaven’s name is going on!”

“Yes!”

Two Mongol warriors answered and were just about to go when dense masses of torches had already appeared along the long street ahead. They came surging in from Guihua’s eastern gate like a fiery dragon twisting and dancing through the night. In the red blaze, the Tumed Khan and the nobles behind him looked on in horror and saw that it was a great host of Ming cavalry.

“Damn it, it’s the Ming army!”

“That’s impossible! How would the Ming dare raid Guihua?”

“Damn your impossible—they’ve already fought their way into the city!”

“I’ll kill those idle patrol riders! They actually let the Ming slip into Guihua without anyone knowing!”

The Tumed nobles were panic-stricken. The Tumed Khan, seasoned by war, had not entirely lost his head despite the peril. He immediately shouted to the captain of his guard outside the tent, “What are you standing there for? Gather the guard at once, gather the guard! Stop these damned Ming troops! They must not be allowed through. They must never be allowed to approach the Khan’s tent!”

“Yes!”

The guard captain answered and leapt onto his horse.

The Tumed Khan then turned and shouted to the nobles at his side, “And you lot—don’t stand here gaping. Go back to your own tents, gather your gold, silver, and valuables, and break out through the west gate as fast as you can!”

With a single cry, the Tumed nobles scattered like birds and beasts.

By then, the Ming cavalry that had burst in through the east gate had already hacked their way into the heart of Guihua. Many Mongols, as well as Jurchens and even Han merchants doing business in Guihua, had no idea what was happening. They poured out noisily from their tents and low earthen houses to see for themselves, only to be slaughtered without mercy by the Ming horsemen.

Everywhere were the running, wailing people of Guihua. Everywhere were the iron riders of the Ming galloping wild through the streets. Everywhere was bloody killing. Wang Pu had given the order: break Guihua, leave not even a chicken or dog alive.

Nor was Wang Pu cruel without reason. He knew all too well the danger posed by a nomadic people. Show mercy and spare these herdsmen today, and tomorrow they would take up bow and saber. They would become the fiercest Mongol warriors, and they would make Ming soldiers pay in blood.

Mercy to the enemy is cruelty to oneself. Wang Pu would never commit such a stupid mistake.