Volume One: In a World of Chaos, Is There a Path for Humanity? Chapter 11: A Thousand Miles II

Page 1 of 3

A new author, a new book—it's truly hard to find one's footing. Recommendations are rare on Zongheng. I humbly beg for your support and collection, my brothers and sisters. Thank you all!

——

Trailing behind Lady Wang's party was a Yuan commander named Fojianu, holding the official title of Chancellor of the Secretariat. This time, he was carrying out orders from the Privy Council, leading three thousand Tumachi cavalry to assist Bolotemur in besieging Fengzhou.

Bolotemur had taken three prefectures in as many days—a remarkable feat, to be sure. Yet Fojianu had almost nothing to do with it. He hadn’t expected such swift victories and, hoping to avoid a pitched assault, had traveled at a leisurely pace. He only arrived yesterday, catching the tail end of the fighting at Dongsheng Prefecture. It was a grave miscalculation, and set against Bolotemur’s dazzling achievements, Fojianu knew he couldn’t risk the Emperor’s displeasure by heading home empty-handed.

Thus, he volunteered for the pursuit of the fleeing enemy and the task of clearing the battlefield.

At first, he intended only to go through the motions—if not honor, then at least effort would be recorded. To his surprise, when he chased Lady Wang’s force to the banks of the Black River, he discovered they had burned the bridge. Coupled with the wagon tracks seen earlier, he became certain he was chasing a big catch. He immediately ordered a bridge built and changed tactics, launching a relentless pursuit.

Tumachi cavalry usually rode with two horses, sometimes three. He simply didn’t believe this beaten, ragtag enemy ahead could outrun them.

In the latter half of the night, they passed through a village. Scouts were sent ahead and discovered traces of the Red Turbans encamped there. Evidence suggested the force they pursued had joined with another Red Turban band. From the villagers, they learned the numbers: combined, their enemies numbered about eight hundred. After questioning, they casually executed over a dozen villagers—trophies for the record of merit.

He gave this no further thought. Eight hundred, or even double that, didn’t trouble him. Crossing the Black River, he had already dispatched fast riders to summon the two Tumachi battalions scattered in other directions to converge at once. He prided himself on concentrating overwhelming force for a decisive blow, to crush the enemy in a single, irresistible surge. When a lion hunts a rabbit, it uses its full strength.

Some ridiculed him for cowardice; he preferred to call it prudence. Had no one heard? Zhuge Liang’s lifelong caution...

The banners snapped in the northern wind.

The wind howled in Deng San’s ears, and a sense of unease crept over him. The horses beneath him grew restless, night birds startled into flight refused to settle. He could almost smell danger in the air. Exchanging a word with Wen Huaguo, he personally led a dozen men to fan out and observe from a distance.

Faint sparks flickered in the dark, warming the eye, quickening the pulse. Two or three grew to a dozen, then to clusters, until a winding dragon of fire stretched across the night.

Deng San shouted, sending a man galloping to deliver a message to Captain Zheng. He spurred the rest of his men to hasten back to the main force.

Page 2 of 3

“Brother?” Seeing Deng San so agitated, Wen Huaguo immediately sensed disaster.

“Damn it, the Mongols are here. No more than twenty li away.” Deng San cursed loudly, assigning orders. “Wen, take all the caltrops Captain Zheng gave us and scatter every last one.” He looked around—flat plains as far as the eye could see, no hills or shelter, no ground to conceal men or ambush troops.

Guan Shirong saw this as well, and could only look helplessly from face to face among his clansmen. “It’s time to put our lives on the line again. In a clash of narrow paths, the brave win. Life or death—it all depends on the courage and luck of our brothers.”

Within moments, the messenger returned: “Thousand-man commander, Captain Zheng orders us to hold the rear at all costs, to block the enemy with our lives. If we fail, not only will Lady Wang perish, but the advance scout, young Deng, likely won’t escape either. He also says that if we hold the Mongols back, the marshal himself will not forget your merit.”

Deng San’s face was clouded. Captain Zheng was right; if the Mongols broke through, this makeshift army would fall apart instantly. Even his adopted son, Deng She, at the very front, would have little hope of survival once the ranks dissolved.

“Damn it, no wonder he wants me to cover the rear while his own son goes ahead!”

Another rider came from the wagons: “Captain Zheng’s order: Deng San’s unit is to hold, no retreat.” After delivering the strict order a second time, the rider softened his tone. “Captain Zheng asks you not to worry, he has ordered Generals Huang and Li on both flanks to spread out for a flanking assault. Young Deng’s signal flags show a forest thirty li ahead, where Captain Zheng will personally lead the musket corps in ambush as support.”

Finally, as if to encourage them, he added, “The Mongols have chased us for a full day and night—they’re exhausted from the long pursuit. Your unit is rested and sharp; if you fight to the death, you will surely win.”

Mission delivered, the rider didn’t leave, but stayed on as if overseeing them.

At this point, nothing more could be said. Deng San spat fiercely on the ground. “Guan! Take your men and dig some shallow pits. The earth is soft after the snow—dig crossways! As soon as the Mongols come, your men pull back fast. I’ll charge first, you follow after!” He shouted, “Wen! Wen!”

Wen Huaguo, busy laying caltrops, hurried over, caltrops still dangling from his hands.

“Make the most of every second. Later, you’re charging with me!”

Deng San’s own unit numbered fifty; with Wen and Guan’s men, they totaled about two hundred and fifty—hardly enough to split any further. But his men barely knew each other. If they charged all at once against a powerful enemy, chaos might break out. Better to split in two, both aimed at the enemy vanguard. If they could disrupt the Yuan formation with repeated charges, aided by Huang and Li’s flanks, they might just stall the enemy’s advance.

Fojianu received a scout’s report: they had spotted the Red Turban rebels a few li ahead. It seemed the enemy had also spotted the Tumachi and was preparing to block their way.

Page 3 of 3

A faint smile touched his lips, and he murmured under his breath, “Overestimating themselves.” He was about to order his troops into attack formation when the phrase “a trapped beast will fight” flashed through his mind. The art of war says: surround on three sides, leave one open. If he pressed too hard, would he provoke the Red Turbans to a desperate fight? After all, they had eight hundred men.

He hesitated briefly, wondering if he should slow the pursuit and wait for the other two battalions to arrive.

But soon he dismissed the idea. He was cautious, never timid. “Just a rabble,” he thought. “Once I seize the important person in the wagon, this campaign will be complete. Let’s hope it’s someone worthwhile, so this siege of Fengzhou isn’t for nothing.”

In the forefront, forming the arrowhead of the battle formation, were two companies of Han soldiers. Ironically, though the Tumachi cavalry was originally built around the five Mongol tribes, a mere century after conquering the Central Plains, Han bowmen now outnumbered Mongols and Sarts in many regiments.

He couldn’t deny that this troubled him as a loyal servant of the dynasty. Then again, “Let them go first,” he thought. “If Han soldiers die, so be it. With years of famine, it saves on rations and also spares more Mongol lives.” This thought brought him some comfort.

Fojianu arranged the troops in the typical Mongol field formation: skirmishers in front, flanks spread wide, main force poised to encircle. If they failed, their superior horses would allow a rapid retreat and ambush. It was a formation learned from wolf packs: simple and effective.

Perched on his horse, Deng San checked his weapon, twirling his spiked mace. The torches of the Yuan army glowed ever brighter in the distance. With battle imminent, he fixed his gaze on their formation, trying to anticipate their next move and adjust his own ranks accordingly. With the clash at hand, all stray thoughts vanished; his sole focus was on how to defeat the enemy.

He saw the enemy’s formation clearly—it was just as he had expected. He decided not to change his own. Raising his mace, he summoned Guan and Wen back from digging and laying caltrops, readying the ranks for battle.

A formation, in essence, is the arrangement of troops around the terrain, like chariots relying on hills, so as to maximize one’s advantage and achieve victory.

——

1. The "Yuan Code" records: In Henan and other regions, most Tumachi bowmen are Han.
2. In the Yuan era, Mongols were called “the national people,” their surnames “national surnames,” their language “the national language.”