Volume One: In a Chaotic World, Is There a Path for Humanity? Chapter 6: Collapse III

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Four hundred and thirty-two defeated soldiers, forty-three of his own men, just one-tenth of the total. Aside from Deng San, Deng She, and Wen Huaguo, the highest-ranking officers were three captains of a hundred, and there was only one leader of ten, fewer than the captains. The defeated troops came from twelve different companies of a thousand, all in disarray, but Deng San was pleased.

The messier it was, the easier to control.

He spent half an hour organizing them into five companies of a hundred. Deng She and Wen Huaguo each commanded a hundred men, Deng San kept fifty by his side as guards, and each of the three captains was assigned around sixty men. The reason for giving these captains command was simple: when people barely knew each other, it was unwise to strip officers of their positions; such a move would only breed suspicion and distrust.

The positions of leader of ten were temporarily filled by old comrades, so in truth, Deng San still held the reins of power.

The defeated soldiers were all bewildered and at a loss; a few, dissatisfied, could not suggest a better plan, so they tacitly accepted Deng San’s arrangement and authority.

Among the three captains, one was Li Zijian, a Shaolin monk by origin—Zijian was his monastic name. He was well-known in the Northern Expedition Army, even Deng San’s group, though from a different branch, had heard his nickname—Monk Li. His fame came not from valor, but from the uniqueness of his unit: all of his men were monks, and thus his company was known as the Monk Squad. He brought out the largest group, over twenty men; the leader of ten was his subordinate and junior, whose secular surname was Sun, monastic name Zifan.

The other two captains were Luo Guoqi, who had escaped alone, his troops wiped out; and Guan Shirong, nicknamed Second Brother Guan, reputedly a man of loyalty, who brought five or six men.

Deng San assigned their men to their respective companies. Facing Deng San, whose rank and numbers surpassed theirs, they voiced no objection, accepting the arrangement. Yet from their expressions and subtle gestures, Deng She could easily discern that Second Brother Guan was indifferent, Luo Guoqi was the most pleased, and Monk Li was rather disgruntled.

“Master Commander, we’ve fled for our lives, but our brothers haven’t eaten for a day and night. Where can we find food?” Once the reorganization was complete, Second Brother Guan’s first words were this. As he spoke, all eyes turned toward them; the dissatisfied ones whispered among themselves.

To be an officer, to hold authority, was no easy task. If you failed to care for your men—if they lacked food, warmth, money, or equipment—no one would lay down their lives for you. Deng San had long understood this from his days as a bandit.

The trouble was, there was neither village nor inn nearby, only wilderness—where could they find food?

“Brothers, get acquainted with each other, tend to any wounds, check your horses and weapons. We may encounter Mongols ahead; once familiar, better prepared, we’ll cooperate more effectively in battle and have a greater chance of survival,” Deng She said, seeing Deng San’s predicament. He helped Wen Huaguo to his feet and addressed the assembled soldiers, “As for food, don’t worry. With so many, we won’t starve. At dawn, we’ll set off; I know there’s a village not far ahead. Even if the villagers have fled, there’ll be something left to eat.”

His words settled the soldiers. Following his orders, the old comrades—now leaders of ten—gathered their new subordinates, made introductions, and the atmosphere soon grew lively.

Once familiar, some old comrades began swearing, bragging, telling lewd tales—such talk suited soldiers. Even those who didn’t care to speak liked to listen. Soon enough, the more boastful and bawdy ones joined in. The hillside before dawn became boisterous.

Deng San arranged the sentries, sent out some scouts, then approached Deng She and asked, “How far is this village ahead? I’ve never heard of it.”

Deng She tugged his sleeve and lowered his voice, “I lied to them.”

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Wen Huaguo, overhearing, clapped his hands admiringly, “Confucius said, ‘Just hearing of plums quenches thirst.’ Deng She, you’re quite resourceful.” Then he fretted, “But since crossing the river, it’s been nothing but barren wilderness. There’s no village ahead—what about food? Feeding over four hundred is no easy matter.”

“We’re far from Fengzhou and Yunnei. If we turn onto the post road, we’re bound to find a relay station,” Deng She said.

‘Relay station’ is Mongolian for ‘postal relay’—a posthouse for transmitting letters and lodging travelers. Each station had a granary; large ones boasted hundreds of horses and cattle for riding and hauling post wagons. Though war now raged, and the stations were surely deserted, and livestock gone, searching them might still yield some food.

Deng San didn’t care. He wasn’t quick-witted, but he had experience. He said, “Did you forget where we fought yesterday? Right in a field. We didn’t see fields after crossing the river, probably because it floods. Wen Fourth, take a few old comrades, scout around, and report if you find a village.”

After Wen Huaguo left, Deng San summoned the captains, unceremoniously assigning tasks: “Monk Li, a hard job for you. Take a few men to the riverbank and see if any Mongols are pursuing us. Once you return, we’ll depart.”

The round trip to the river would take at least two hours—he was buying time for Wen Huaguo and the others.

Monk Li was reluctant, but had to obey. Just mounting his horse, Deng San called out, “Don’t come back empty-handed! There are surely fish in the river. Catch some, so the brothers can have hot fish soup to warm up before marching to the village ahead.”

Monk Li nearly cursed; how could they catch fish? They had nothing, only the option to jump into the river. The Black River was swift, deep, sometimes even frozen. In such weather, jumping in would freeze a man. They had crossed by bridge, not water!

But Deng San made his request publicly, “Let the brothers warm up”—with such a heavy expectation, Monk Li had to swallow his frustration. “No problem, Master Commander, you wait here.”

“What a good man.” Deng San praised Monk Li’s straightforwardness, then pulled Luo Guoqi and Second Brother Guan to sit. “With nothing to do, let’s talk. This is my adopted son, Deng She. Look at that wound—he broke through from Fengzhou, young but a true man.”

Luo Guoqi, about forty, wore a neat, glossy beard. His armor was in tatters, yet clean—he must have washed it at the river. He nodded repeatedly, “Master Commander speaks true, speaks true. When I was Deng Captain’s age, not only could I not charge through vast armies, I couldn’t even tie up a chicken.”

His speech carried a scholarly touch, so Deng She asked, “Captain Luo, what did you do before joining the army?”

“It’s a tale that shames me.” Luo Guoqi sighed, answering seriously without patronizing Deng She’s youth, “I’m from Qufu County. My family had some money when I was young; I studied for a few years at Nishan Academy. Tried the provincial exams several times, failed every time, spent all my money, and was destitute. Before joining the army, I made a living telling stories.”

He smiled, “My horsemanship was learned as a child, just playing. Never thought it would become my livelihood now.”

Deng She was filled with respect. He hadn’t heard of Nishan Academy, but knew Qufu was Confucius’s hometown, and Nishan was somehow related. Bearing the pain of his wound, he helped Wen Huaguo to his feet, saluted, “So you’re from the Sage’s homeland—I am honored.”

“Not at all, not at all.” Luo Guoqi quickly stood and returned the salute, urging Deng She to sit, “Captain Deng is wounded, I don’t deserve such respect. Please, sit.”

During the Yuan dynasty, the civil service exam was suspended for fifty years. In the second year of Emperor Renzong’s reign, it was reinstated, now forty-six years ago. Every three years, twelve exams have been held, each admitting thirty to a hundred candidates. Half were Mongols and Semu, the other half Han and Southerners. Thus, to this day, only three or four hundred Han men have made the list.

Even for the provincial exam, only three hundred from each region would qualify for the next stage. So Deng She had no reason to look down on Luo Guoqi for failing the provincial exam. Literate and skilled in arms, in the Red Turbans, where scholars were scarce, he was still a figure. Deng She wondered, “As a disciple of the Sage, why did Captain Luo take a military post?”

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He didn’t say it outright, but everyone understood: a scholar from the academy, why was he charging into battle as a mere captain?

Luo Guoqi looked embarrassed, but before he could reply, Second Brother Guan interjected, “The famous Blockhead Luo. In Commander Wang’s army, who doesn’t know him? Always contradicting superiors. I heard you were demoted three ranks from headquarters, straight down to captain?”

“Scholarly arrogance. After so much bloodshed, I see now how foolish I once was, truly foolish,” Luo Guoqi said, waving repeatedly, asking Guan not to say more.

No wonder he was so timid and smooth now, no wonder he was the only captain without a following. Perhaps his subordinates hadn’t all died, but simply no one respected him, none followed him. Yet it was remarkable that, in such circumstances, he still managed to continue.

Deng She’s guess was off.

Luo Guoqi had joined the Red Turbans not by choice, but was forced in by Wang Shicheng’s unit. At first, he looked down on these bandits, though before being forced in, he’d already fallen to wandering the streets, earning a living as a storyteller and performer. He still felt he should have the dignity of a scholar.

A disciple of the Sage, how could he mix with these peasants? Worse, they were in the business of rebellion and killing! After several incidents of confrontation and noncooperation, Wang Shicheng lost patience and booted him out: “Go to the battlefield and see how blood flows, how men die.”

He could ride, and a captain’s position happened to be vacant, so he filled it.

After several battles of blood and flesh, seeing comrades die, hearing wounded men groan through the night, he lost his appetite and suffered sleepless nights. To survive, his first thought was to escape. When he was kicked out of headquarters, the Red Turbans were near Liaodong and Shangdu—strange lands, wartime chaos, nowhere to flee.

He considered surrendering to the Yuan army; after all, he’d been forced, not a willing rebel. But, aside from eating and living with the soldiers, he never had the chance. Even if he did, as a mere captain, who would notice him? Perhaps for convenience, a blade would fall, and he’d become someone’s merit.

Years in the army, he’d seen and heard such things often.

In these circumstances, he made the right choice—he quickly changed his temperament. He was never one to refuse to bend for a bowl of rice; that was clear from his easy shift to storytelling. He deeply regretted his past arrogance and worked hard to change.

He did all sorts of things; Wang Shicheng’s method worked—his sharp edges vanished, he grew smooth, even timid. He tried not to look down on his subordinates anymore, for on the battlefield he needed them to survive, though deep down he still despised them.

With the stimulus of blood and death, his scholar’s pride was nearly forgotten, and Wang Shicheng had entirely forgotten him. In the meantime, he used his learning to earn some merit, but Wang Shicheng disliked him—so when superiors reported achievements, he was never included. Thus, he remained a captain for years.