Volume One: Is There a Path for Mortals in Troubled Times? Chapter 8: Internal Strife II

Deng San was giving an assembly speech, but Deng She did not attend. He feared he might lose control again in front of the soldiers.

Back in the courtyard, he ate a little. His personal guard tidied the room, found a somewhat intact mat and two quilts, lit a fire in the brazier, and urged him to rest. Closing his eyes, the images of the brutally slain children and the pitiful women seemed to appear before him once more. He loathed his continual concessions, despised his own weakness, and believed himself the true culprit behind this tragedy.

If only I had realized the problem sooner, sent men to patrol earlier; or, thinking further back, if I had stood my ground during the repeated raids and confronted Deng San, making him understand the importance of discipline and strictly restraining his men. Perhaps then, today’s tragedy might not have happened.

It is time for change. With the knowledge from his previous life and his experiences since crossing over, he knew well that a beast lurked in every human heart. Killing, bloodshed, and the allure of power often let the beast overtake the man, which is why wars throughout history have seen countless unspeakable atrocities.

Perhaps today’s events were just an isolated case, an outburst under the unbearable pressure of defeat. But if left unchecked, if things continued to escalate, this Red Turban band would sooner or later become a band of beasts. Not only did this conflict with his own morals, but it would also lead this army to self-destruction. For both emotional and rational reasons, he had to urge Deng San to make a decision soon.

Yet he also knew, with these newly gathered remnants, still on the run, neither Deng San nor himself had established enough authority. To recklessly enforce discipline would only provoke backlash.

Now was not the time—but when would be?

Tormented by guilt and anxiety, he tossed and turned, certain he would not sleep. But his wounds, exhaustion, and the mental fatigue after his outburst soon pulled him into slumber. When he woke, the sunlight was faint. He roused his personal guard, who had been sleeping on the floor by the bed. “What time is it?”

The guard, bleary-eyed, struggled up and glanced outside. “It’s dawn.”

Deng She had slept for an entire day and night. The ample rest left him refreshed and strong enough to move. He got out of bed and carefully exercised in the courtyard. Most of his wounds had scabbed over and were more itchy than painful.

He heard some noise from the kitchen and went over. Through the window, he saw a woman bound inside, her hands and feet tied, a rag stuffed in her mouth, and a tattered blanket thrown over her. She looked vaguely familiar—yesterday, she was the mother of the child who had been killed. She was awake, twisting her body, and when she saw Deng She, she stopped and glared at him with unwavering hatred.

“What’s going on here?” Deng She’s mood sank instantly.

The guard rubbed his eyes. “The old master’s orders. He said you should handle her as you see fit.”

Deng She understood. “Handle” meant “compensate.” Deng San was offering him a way to ease his guilt. No one knew his son like a father did, and though an adoptive father, Deng San had watched him grow up. “He’s good at everything, but sometimes he’s too soft—damn it, got his head muddled with all that schooling as a kid,” Deng San had once said of him.

Deng She stood there for a long time, then, unable to meet the woman’s hateful gaze, said, “When we leave, make sure she has some food.”

The guard, busy preparing breakfast with stolen grain, nodded. There was even some meat. “Master Wen Si got a dog last night, brought some over special for you.”

He had just begun eating when one of Deng San’s guards arrived on horseback. Deng San wanted to know if Deng She was up. If he was, he should head to the ancestral hall at the village entrance for a military meeting.

“So early? Is it to discuss our next move?” Deng She quickly wolfed down a few more bites, grabbed some dog meat, and left the rest for the other guards.

“No,” said the guard. “The decision to head to Shangdu was made yesterday afternoon. Since you were still sleeping, the old master didn’t want to wake you.”

“Oh?” Deng She was concerned about the others’ opinions. “Is everyone else on board?”

“Only Captain Huang had some reservations, but he didn’t say much. The other officers had no objections.”

Deng She was relieved. As long as there were no objections, things would be easier. “So what’s the meeting for today?”

The guard brought his horse, and Deng She mounted up, reaching for his saber and spear—a habit formed in long years of war, always keeping weapons close. This habit had saved his life more than once during ambushes and night attacks.

“I don’t know the details, but I heard the old master cursing when I arrived. Apparently, some people are making a fuss behind the scenes about you killing someone yesterday.”

As expected.

Deng She could guess easily who was stirring trouble. He said nothing, spurred his horse faster. After the killing, he’d anticipated the backlash. He might not be the most capable, but he had seen things ancient men never had. So, while pondering last night about tightening military discipline, he’d already devised a solution: a meeting to recall past hardships.

To stop violence with violence was futile. Most Red Turbans were peasants—find a way to touch their hearts and they’d understand. That was enough. Long war had already turned these simple folk into killing machines; he did not expect immediate support, nor could he obtain it.

Inside the ancestral hall, five or six men sat. Deng San took the center seat, speaking as Deng She entered.

On one side sat Wen Huaguo, with an empty seat beside him. Further down were Guan Shiyong and Luo Guoqi. Li the Monk stood, stroking his bald head and leaning against a pillar. Huang Donkey craned his neck, staring at a bird’s nest in the corner of the roof, as if it was more interesting than Deng San’s speech.

Seeing Deng She, Deng San paused. Luo Guoqi was the first to stand—the only one who did. His face was all smiles, with a flattering concern anyone could see. “Captain Deng, you’re well? You look much better.”

Guan Shiyong nodded at Deng She. Wen Huaguo boisterously pointed to the empty seat across from him. “Sit here.”

Huang Donkey would have kept watching the bird, but remembered Deng She had given him food when he was starving on the run. Though a high-ranking officer, Deng She was honorable and capable, worth cultivating. So, he decided not to vent his grievances with Deng San on Deng She. He even smiled, showing fairness and loyalty to the Red Turbans and his benefactor, Mr. Guan.

He hoped his goodwill would be recognized, that perhaps Deng San would learn to respect protocol as Deng She did. But worried Deng San might miss the nuance behind his smile, he put on a solemn tone. “So young, yet after just a little rest, you’re full of life. Our Great Song needs men like you.”

Deng She modestly greeted everyone, urging Huang Donkey and Li the Monk to sit. Huang Donkey waved him off. “You’re wounded, you sit.” Pleased with Deng She’s courtesy, he decided to speak up for him if things got heated—they were, after all, both from the same system.

Li the Monk snorted, straightened, and ignored Deng San, addressing Deng She. “Young Captain Deng, I’m sure you’ve heard. Playing the hero is fine, but now the brothers are all uneasy. Four or five hundred men—if there’s trouble, who knows what could happen?” He left the threat hanging, splaying his hands. “So? Can we still lead this unit? Can we move forward? Morale is gone!”

Wen Huaguo interrupted, his voice booming. “Who says morale is gone? That bastard deserved to die! Honestly, if I’d been there, I would’ve cut him to pieces! Scholar Luo, you’re educated—tell us, someone who spares not even a child, is that still a man?”

“Indeed, indeed,” Luo Guoqi agreed repeatedly.

“I respect men of letters most,” Wen Huaguo pressed him. “You speak the truth! Give a fair judgment!”

Having read the classics, Luo Guoqi couldn’t lie just to appease Wen Huaguo. Besides, he’d offended Wang Shicheng before, and rarely interacted with Li the Monk. At military meetings, Li and his men barely acknowledged him, and some officers mocked him. He had little liking for Li the Monk or for Wang Shicheng’s faction.

Moreover, his own command had been decimated during the retreat; if Li the Monk took charge, he’d surely lose his position. With Wang’s men numerous but unfamiliar with each other, and Deng San’s forty-odd men few but united, any real conflict’s outcome was uncertain.

Not wanting to offend either side, he said, “In my humble opinion, we should find a way to resolve this undercurrent of unrest in the ranks.”

“Resolve it? How?” Li the Monk was dissatisfied. He glared at Luo Guoqi, then turned to Guan Shiyong. “Old Guan, what’s your solution?”

Unmoved by the squabbling, Guan Shiyong remained indifferent. He knew this was just a power struggle for control over the remnants. By background, he should support Li the Monk, but what good would that do? Even if Li succeeded, would he give him a higher post? He didn’t care much for his current rank. Unlike the others, he had joined with his entire clan.

Eight years ago, when the court called for the reopening of the Yellow River’s old course, fifteen thousand conscripted laborers were sent from various prefectures, including Guan Shiyong and his father. When Liu Futong raised his banner, Guan’s relatives joined. But his father, already sixty, only wished to return home, so they refused.

In May, the Yuan court sent six thousand Asud troops and various Han forces against Liu Futong and suffered a crushing defeat. The victors then slaughtered innocent villagers to claim credit. On their way home, the Guans encountered a fleeing Yuan detachment. Guan Shiyong, trained in martial arts, fought desperately to protect his father and barely escaped with his life. Returning home, he found his village destroyed—over half its five hundred souls dead, bodies burnt and beheaded, including his mother, wife, and young child. His father died of grief on the spot.

Famed for his loyalty, Guan Shiyong’s rage drove him to gather the few surviving clan members and join the Red Turbans. Those who remained with him from the start were the last survivors of his family.

Now, all he wanted was to kill as many Mongols as possible and keep his lineage alive. He cared nothing for the factions’ open or secret struggles.

Recalling his village’s fate, he found no fault in Deng She for killing, though Li the Monk was right that unrest must be addressed. After some thought, he offered a compromise. “There’s always a way. Captain Deng, do you have any ideas?”

Li the Monk scoffed, “A snot-nosed brat—what ideas could he have?”

Deng San slapped the table and was about to rise, but Deng She held him back. Scanning the room—Luo Guoqi’s eyes darted, Wen Huaguo’s face flushed, Guan Shiyong calm, Huang Donkey again stared at the bird—Deng She smiled. “Then, Captain Li, what’s your suggestion?”

“Go apologize to the men, promise it won’t happen again. Simple as that.” Li the Monk had long disliked Deng San and Deng She. Deng San outranked him, seized command, and he had endured it; but to be humiliated, forced to fish in the freezing river in front of all the men—he could not forgive that. A man may be killed, but not insulted.

Of the five captains, three belonged to Wang Shicheng’s division; of the four hundred soldiers, nine out of ten were his own men. Even adding Huang Donkey’s hundred battered survivors, he was confident Deng San was no match for him.

He sneered, “Of course, young people are thin-skinned. If you’re unwilling, there’s another way: give up your captaincy!”

“And what about the commander’s position?” Deng She pressed further.

Deng She’s courtesy came from his past education; but when faced with insoluble problems, he could be as ruthless as any man of this bloody age, lessons learned from both his new world and Deng San. If the key didn’t work, he’d use a hammer and smash it all open.

He also had another motive—to drag the aloof Huang Donkey into the fray.

Li the Monk fell straight into his trap. “I wasn’t going to say it, but since you ask—yes, I think the commander should be replaced as well!”

Huang Donkey’s eyelids twitched, and he glanced sharply at Li the Monk.

“Who do you think is fit for the role, Captain Li?”

“Shangdu is far, a journey of a thousand miles. The lead goose guides the flock. I, your uncle, have one talent: I can find the way.” The implication was clear—he was fit to lead.

“There is more than one who knows the way,” Huang Donkey said calmly for the third time, eyes still on the bird. “There are also old horses who can’t carry loads.”

Li the Monk exploded in anger, Deng San burst out laughing, Guan Shiyong smiled wryly, Luo Guoqi barely suppressed a grin. Wen Huaguo shouted his approval. “Well said, Captain Huang!”

Having achieved his aim, Deng She stood. “Father, Captain Huang, everyone, I do have an idea.”

—

1. The Asud Army: During the Mongol western campaigns, Persian-speaking Asud tribes from the Caucasus were brought east. Originally Eastern Orthodox, they later became soldiers in the Central Plains. The Asud, known for green eyes and curly hair, were called “Green-Eyed Hui” and held higher status than black-eyed Han people in the Yuan’s four-level system. Their troops were famed for ferocity and horsemanship.

From the "History of the Yuan": In May, there was an eclipse. The sorcerer Liu Futong and his followers in Yingzhou claimed a descendant of the Song emperors would restore China, raising the Red Turban banner and seizing the city. The court sent six thousand Asud troops under Tuqchi and various Han forces to suppress them. Both generals were addicted to wine and women, and their men focused on looting, taking little care with their mission. When Tuqchi saw the size of the Red Army, he shouted “Abu, Abu” (“run” in their language), and his whole force fled, much to the amusement of the local people. Later, Tuqchi died at Shangcai, and the other general was executed by the court. Most Asud soldiers, unaccustomed to the climate, died of illness.