Volume One: In a Turbulent World, Is There a Path for Humanity? Chapter 2: Fengzhou II

Guan Duo’s cavalry was not numerous. Inside Fengzhou city, there were thirty thousand Red Turbans, with four thousand-man cavalry units, their actual numbers just around two thousand.

As an officer not from the main branch, Deng San never hesitated to take the lead in such harassing and disordering operations that were both strenuous and thankless. His men lined up in formation—a rectangle of two to three hundred, while to their right, another two hundred cavalry under Yellow Mule stood in a similar array.

Yellow Mule hailed from the eastern branch of Liu Futong’s Red Army, of Han military household origin.

Under Yuan rule, military households were categorized as Tamma, Han, and Newly Attached troops, with government regulations forbidding changes in their household status. Han military households bore their own travel expenses to garrison posts, and when military provisions fell short, they had to make up the difference themselves, sending supplies to the army each year—a practice called “sealed spring.” For households stationed at remote borders, the long journey and officers’ embezzlement meant that for every portion delivered, ten would be consumed. Although the court offered some tax relief, the gap was too great; families were ruined to supply the army, and many abandoned their homes and fields to escape military conscription, becoming refugees. Yellow Mule was one such man. On the road in exile, his family perished from hunger and disease until he was left alone, forced by circumstance to join the Red Turbans.

Coming from a line of military men, brave and skilled in battle, he had joined early and gradually earned his rank to a thousand-household commander.

The sun had climbed past its zenith and was slowly sinking westward. Beneath the white pagoda and black banner, the icy early spring wind swept up leftover snow and dry leaves from the ground and roofs, sometimes swirling onto the soldiers’ heads, armor, and weapons. The warhorses stamped restlessly, snorting white breath and nickering softly.

Dozens of fierce Red Turbans encircled a general in bright armor, emerging from one side. This general was the highest-ranking cavalry officer, Commander Feng Changjiu.

“Order from Chancellor Guan: Deng San’s unit will exit the north gate. You must burn the Mongol flying bridges, siege towers, and rams, disrupt their camp, and buy time for our army’s deployment. Should you destroy their cannons, you’ll be credited one rank higher and awarded a hundred gold,” Feng Changjiu, with his black face, bristling beard, and booming voice, circled the field on horseback.

“Order received!” Deng San glanced sideways at Yellow Mule, listening as Feng Changjiu continued.

“Yellow Mule’s unit, follow after Deng San’s force. You must break through the enemy’s encirclement and reach Yunnei and Dongsheng prefectures.” Feng Changjiu drew two wax-sealed letters from his breast. “These are strict orders from Chancellor Guan for those two prefectures. Remember: if you fail to deliver them, don’t bother coming back.”

Yunnei and Dongsheng were not far from Fengzhou; these three prefectures were all vital strongholds of the northwest, known in Liao times as the Western Three Prefectures, now all under Red Turban control.

“Order received!” Yellow Mule dismounted, jogged before Feng Changjiu’s horse, accepted the letters with chest out and head high, then swung his fist over his head and shouted, “The Maitreya descends, the Bright King arises!”

“The Maitreya descends, the Bright King arises!” The two hundred behind him echoed in unison. Their sudden shout startled Deng San, who grunted and muttered about bootlickers, while Deng She behind him also raised his arm and joined the shout.

Four to five hundred voices thundered as one, their volume shattering the air—a flock of birds took flight from distant branches in fright. Satisfied, Feng Changjiu nodded and smiled, then turned his horse toward the Grand Hall.

“Damn it, of all things to imitate, you choose bootlicking!” Seeing Feng Changjiu depart, Deng San rapped Deng She a few times on the head. Deng She only grinned in reply.

The five hundred mounted men filed into the barbican, the city gate slowly closing behind them as they awaited the order for the final charge.

“Light the torches!”

Each man was handed a torch, lit by the city’s defending infantry.

In the northwest, the Yuan cannons went from silent to roaring, the cries of “Kill! Kill! Kill!” mingling with the thunder of artillery over the walls. The first assault on the city by Yuan troops was about to begin. The black banner dropped from the white pagoda, and the signaler hoisted the great flag, rushing atop the barbican: “Order from Chancellor Guan: Cavalry, advance!”

The gate opened, the world before them wide.

Beyond the moat, the Yuan army stretched as far as the eye could see—military banners blanketed the fields, smoke and dust swirling. On siege towers several stories high, signals flashed, while flying bridges, pushed by strong men, were unfolded and laid across the river. Behind them, a dozen rams stood ready. Farther back, countless infantry formed serried ranks, blades and spears gleaming, while squads of cavalry patrolled, the drumbeats and cannon fire echoing to the heavens.

“Lower the drawbridge!”

—

The Yuan soldiers opposite spotted them, and a thousand-man detachment moved forward, shields in front, archers behind. At the officer’s command, a hail of arrows darkened the sky. Simultaneously, Red Turban archers atop the barbican returned fire. The only two cannons, placed on the north wall, boomed dully, stone balls rolling into the Yuan ranks.

“They haven’t even built their camp!” Deng She noticed, riding up to Deng San and shouting.

Deng San spat viciously. They were still inside the barbican, safe from arrows for now, but how could they break through like this? “The Mongols are desperate!” As the drawbridge dropped, Deng San drew his saber. In this moment, all his complaints vanished, and only the memory of his family, slaughtered by the Tamma’s blades, filled his mind: “Let’s see whose luck is greater. If you die, you go to heaven; if you live, you live on! If your head falls, it’s just a scar the size of a bowl. Brothers, charge!”

Three hundred men cursed and bellowed, three hundred spears and sabers raised, three hundred strong voices howled as they burst from the barbican.

“Are we going, Commander?” someone asked Yellow Mule.

“Wait till they cross the drawbridge and throw the Mongol lines into chaos,” Yellow Mule replied, unmoving.

Deng San led the charge, already across the drawbridge. Deng She hurled his torch and spun his spear, shielding the two of them, knocking aside a dozen arrows in a single breath. How many brothers made it across? How many were hit? There was no time to look back, only to charge ahead.

The archers behind the shields slowly withdrew as spearmen stepped forward. Through the gaps in the shields, one could see the prepared cheval-de-frise being dragged up in rows, while on either side of the barbican, more flying bridges were being assembled, some nearly ready.

On the walls, arrows were replaced with fire arrows, and the cannons now targeted the Yuan soldiers building the bridges.

Closer, closer—dozens of torches flew from Deng She’s men, spinning into the Yuan ranks. Some spearmen caught fire, their weapons twisting as they howled in pain. Deng She leaned low; Deng San drew his flail and smashed it with a gust of wind against a shield taller than a man.

A spear thrust out; Deng She shouted, mustering all his strength to flip the shield Deng San had struck, then stabbed forward, hitting the shield-bearer in the chest. No time to pull the spear free—left hand drew his saber, hacking down a spearman whose clothes were aflame.

“Damn that Deng San, he’s truly fierce,” Yellow Mule cursed as he watched, gripping his reins. “Tell the brothers to get ready.”

“When do we go?”

“When he breaks their shield wall.”

Blades and spears flashed; flesh and blood flew. The screams, shouts, clash of weapons, and thunder of hooves blended into a single, deafening roar. Deng She’s blood boiled.

He had been in this world for nearly ten years. From a five- or six-year-old child to now, most of his life had been spent in violence and war. He had once been lost and bewildered, once harbored ambitions, but in the face of harsh reality, survival and food came first.

He had endured enough of the Mongols’ and Semuren’s contempt for Han people, and enough of the days spent starving and fleeing for his life. Deng San taught him: in these times, the law is corrupt, punishments are harsh, people eat people, paper buys more paper, bandits become officials, officials become bandits. What’s a bandit? What’s an official? In the end, those who dare to kill and rob are the masters!

He agreed—especially when he saw the emaciated, vacant-eyed people waiting to be slaughtered, he was glad he hadn’t been reborn as one of them.

In chaotic times, there’s no safe road for mortals; a hero’s blade must be stained with blood.

Thus, a modern university student was forged by life into a Red Turban rebel, a horse thief in thought and bandit in deed.

Spears danced, blood flowed. In moments, Deng She and Deng San had broken dozens of steps into the Yuan lines. Ahead, just ten more meters, stood the wall of cheval-de-frise. Amid the chaos, Deng She looked around—far off, Yuan cavalry gathered, waiting quietly for them to exhaust themselves.

“Raise the flag, to the west!” Deng San ordered, wheeling his horse and killing as he went. Deng She shouted, “Pass the order—west!” Blood splattered his face, but he ignored it, staying close behind Deng San.

“Deng San’s heading west!”

—

Yellow Mule was surprised. “Is he really going to destroy their cannons?” But he didn’t care; the shield wall was broken enough. He drew his saber and ordered, “Charge!”

With the red banner unfurled, Deng She and Deng San burst through the shield wall into open ground. Two flying bridges over the moat were ablaze, but many more had been laid—each two or three meters wide, with swarms of Yuan soldiers pushing siege ladders and equipment to the walls.

On the ramparts, logs and stones tumbled down. Some struck ladders still being set up, but most were stopped by the iron-plated carts at the base, having little effect. This time, the Yuan attack came so swiftly that the Red Turbans had scant time to prepare defenses. Though Fengzhou was a major city, before its capture the defending Yuan soldiers had already burned the arsenal.

Racing along the moat, Deng San’s cavalry, being few in number and mounted, moved swiftly. The Yuan troops in front were mostly infantry, so they clashed only briefly and soon reached the western wall.

At the sight before him, Deng San sucked in a breath of cold air. From atop the wall, he hadn’t seen the full scale—now, arrayed along the city’s west, sat several hundred cannons, protected by ranks of infantry and cavalry, all focused on battering the western wall.

“It’s hopeless.” Before he finished, a team of Yuan gunners appeared to block their way, and nearby, cavalry rode to intercept.

“Retreat!”

A thunderous explosion drew every eye on the battlefield. After a brief silence, a wave of Yuan cheers swept forth: “The wall is breached! The wall is breached!”

The Red Turbans had focused their attack on the western wall, which was already damaged. Under the bombardment of hundreds of Yuan cannons, the wall collapsed in a short time. The Red Turbans had prepared a temporary wooden parapet to block the breach, but, hastily built, it was all wood and clearly would offer little resistance.

Deng San instantly changed his command: “Turn around! Withdraw.”

There was no hope of re-entering the city. The only way now was to break through and flee to Yunnei and Dongsheng.

——

1. Han military households:
After the Yuan conquest, the government supplied Han soldiers with winter and summer uniforms, weapons, and a monthly ration of five dou of rice and one jin of salt. Any shortages in clothing or equipment had to be supplied by the household, and all expenses were pooled from the family and affiliated households, sent to the army as “sealed spring funds.” Military campaigns were costly; by the late 13th century, a single campaign could cost a soldier over a thousand strings of cash a year (equivalent to 50–100 shi of rice). Travel expenses added to the burden, forcing families to sell land—some who once owned thirty qing of fields ended as beggars.

2. Hundreds of cannons:
A Yuan cannon from the third year of Zhishun (1332) bears the inscription “Zhishun Third Year, Second Month, Fourteenth Day, Frontier Pacification Army, Cannon No. 300, Mashan.” This means the frontier army had at least 300 cannons. During the late Yuan peasant wars, not only the regular armies but even peasant forces widely used artillery. For example, during Zhu Yuanzhang’s siege of Suzhou, “Xu Da and forty-eight guards surrounded the city, each guard deploying five ‘Xiangyang catapults’ and over fifty ‘Qishaos,’ plus fifty large and small ‘General’s Tubes’ (cannons). Camps ringed the city. When Zhang tried to escape, he could not pass. The thunder of guns and cannons never ceased.” Here, the ‘Xiangyang’ and ‘Qishao’ were catapults; the ‘General’s Tube’ was a cannon.

Inside Suzhou, “the siege dragged on, and Xiong Tianrui taught the defenders to make flying cannons to attack our forces. When all wood and stone ran out, they tore down shrines and houses for materials.”

One can imagine how fierce the artillery barrages were.

In the Ming Dynasty, between Hongwu 31 and Zhengtong 9 (a span of 46 years), at least 130,000 firearms and cannons were produced based on inscriptions and serial numbers, demonstrating the widespread use of artillery in the Yuan era.