Chapter Fourteen

The siege of Tianjin concluded in such an abrupt and anticlimactic fashion. That very afternoon, Lin Feng left Yang Haisheng and Liu Lao Si’s troops to hold the fortifications, while his own central army broke camp and marched to reinforce Beijing. At the same time, he dispatched messengers to notify Zhao Guangyuan, ordering him to gather the cavalry and rendezvous at Wuqing.

Heaven alone knew what was happening. Lin Feng’s heart was full of disappointment and rage. Only now did he begin to awaken, realizing that war was nothing like the childish games he had imagined. Overnight, the situation seemed to grow perilous; in fact, judging by Wang Dahai’s desperate plea for aid, things appeared even worse than they seemed at first glance.

Two evenings prior, tens of thousands of refugees who had relied on the Han army’s porridge tents suddenly rioted. They killed the porridge officials and the bailiffs responsible for maintaining order, then besieged the West Canal Gate. The city’s defenders were caught off guard—nearly losing the gate. Fortunately, Wang Dahai, ever cautious, had personally led patrols these past days. At the first warning cannon, he rushed with reinforcements, and after a short, fierce battle, managed to quell the uprising. Yet, before the defenders could catch their breath, the Qing cavalry appeared like phantoms, racing back and forth beneath the city walls, exchanging volleys of arrows with the defenders, inflicting minor casualties before withdrawing at nightfall.

Zhou Peigong shared this view. When Zhao Guangyuan took his seat, Zhou pointed to the map on the table and said to Lin Feng, “Commander, I don’t think this is Zhao’s fault. Our army was simply too careless before battle. If I were Tu Hai, I would take advantage of our main force being away and send cavalry from the west of Baoding, through Mancheng and Yixian, marching along the inner Great Wall, suddenly striking into Beijing from Suiyuan, and raiding the capital’s strategic points.” He smiled wryly, “Though we occupy most of the capital region, the crucial gateways remain in enemy hands—it is truly difficult to defend!”

Lin Feng nodded, “You’re quite right, Peigong.” Turning, he cupped his hands to Zhao Guangyuan, “Old Zhao, this time I was at fault. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you without knowing the facts!”

Zhao Guangyuan, overwhelmed by the gesture, hurriedly stood and returned the salute several times, clearly flustered. The total strength of the army was about eleven thousand men.

It was just after the wheat harvest, and though Beijing lay in the north, the weather was still stiflingly hot. The Han soldiers marched along the official road, clad in armor and carrying weapons, each sweating through their heavy garments. The artillery battalion had mule carts, but they did little to help. The speed of the march left the ranks scattered; despite the officers’ constant shouting and admonishments, it seemed to have little effect.

By afternoon, the heat intensified. Thankfully, recruitment had been strict, and most soldiers were physically robust; otherwise, a forced march in such heat would have cost them much of their fighting strength. Even so, Lin Feng, riding atop his horse, saw soldiers collapsing from heatstroke along the column, promptly tossed aside by their officers.

“Order Shi Lang…” Lin Feng frowned, visibly irritated. In truth, he hadn’t anticipated the troubles that would arise on the march. “Detach a battalion from the central army, place it under Shi Lang’s command, and have the artillery clear out their mule carts for the wounded. Organize a rescue team to collect those overcome by heat!”

Once the messenger departed, Lin Feng turned to Zhou Peigong, “Peigong, where are we now?”

“Up ahead is He Ying,” Zhou replied, clutching his map as he had for days, lost in thought. “Once we pass He Ying and reach Majuchiao, things will be easier. There, we cross the canal, secure the official road, and guard the key positions, allowing us to coordinate with Tongzhou and Beijing. Then we can encircle and annihilate…”

“Report—!” In the distance, a cavalryman galloped toward them, voice stretched in a wild shout. The soldiers and mule carts parted as Lin Feng looked up, instantly recognizing Zhao Guangyuan’s personal guard.

He seemed calm, “This time, we’ve fallen for Tu Hai’s trap. Commander, look here,” he pointed to a rough map on his saddle, suddenly spreading his arms to trace a wide circle around him, “The terrain here is flat, all sandy ground with floating grass—perfect for a large cavalry charge. The nearest village, Dayuzhuang, is more than twenty li away… Our men are exhausted, while the enemy is fresh, waiting for us…” He sighed, “This battle will not be easy.”

Lin Feng looked up at the musket brigade beside him, his mood gradually settling. After Zhou Peigong’s analysis, he suddenly let out a cold laugh, “So, by your reasoning, we have no choice but to surrender?!”

“Of course not,” Zhou replied with a bitter smile. “Our only advantage now is our equipment. If these muskets and cannons are as powerful as you claimed, we still have a chance!” His words betrayed his lack of confidence in the musket battalion.

The standard-bearer reacted first. Seeing the commander ride forward, he instinctively squeezed his horse’s flanks, raising the grand banner and following. The rest of the guards, as if roused from a dream, cursed their mounts and rushed after him.

Lin Feng spurred his horse at full speed, hoarsely shouting orders. The “Lin” character flag billowed and snapped in the wind, racing to the front. Officers at all levels, as if whipped into action, immediately pushed their soldiers to reform ranks—the vanguard lined up with raised guns, the rear surged up the hill.

Morale was restored.

Zhao Guangyuan stood atop a small burial mound, gripping the reins in one hand and holding a monocular in the other. The Qing force was already close; the monocular was hardly necessary, but he posed as if nothing was amiss to calm the nervous cavalry behind him.

His cavalry consisted mostly of new recruits. While these northern men had ridden before enlistment, riding in battle was a different matter, and their combat effectiveness was far from reassuring.

Without careful scrutiny, Zhao Guangyuan, a veteran of many campaigns, could already judge the enemy’s strength: the Qing force was entirely cavalry, numbering at least five thousand, and certainly elite. Most soldiers appeared to have at least three years’ service; their riding skills were exceptional. Even at full gallop, their formation was impeccable. Thousands of riders moved as one—the hoofbeats staggered yet harmonious, men silent, horses mute, bugles crisp and brief, halts sudden but orderly.

He lowered the monocular and smiled as he glanced back at his cavalry. They had calmed considerably; in the ranks of over three thousand, not a sound, only the horses snorting quietly.

Zhao Guangyuan nodded with satisfaction, though outwardly calm, he knew the truth. He felt conflicted—his troops could not possibly defeat the enemy before him. If he recklessly engaged the Qing cavalry, he would lose everything. Once his cavalry was destroyed, replenishing them would be nearly impossible. This was not Liaodong nor the open grasslands, but the plains within the passes.

Yet, despite his reluctance, Zhao Guangyuan had no intention of disobeying orders. Everything he possessed was granted by the commander, and even if he lost it all, there might still be a chance to regain it. Lin Feng was no ordinary man; Zhao held a near-mystical trust in him.

He glanced back, growing anxious. The messenger had not arrived—whether to flee or fight, the commander’s orders were still unknown. Meanwhile, the Qing cavalry had rested, their mounts recovering strength. The two forces were less than two li apart; within moments, the enemy could charge. Cavalry was not like infantry—if the Qing began their assault, his men would have to run, or else lose all speed and advantage.

As he pondered anxiously, dust suddenly rose from the Qing rear ranks—another detachment of cavalry arrived, led by a towering flag bearing the words “Grand General of Fuyuan.” Before the dust settled, dozens of leather drums thundered in unison. The Qing army unleashed a bloodcurdling shout, their previously calm line surging like a stormy sea. The massed cavalry swept forward, thundering across the earth like a dark cloud, accelerating ever faster. The drumbeats roared like thunder, the momentum overwhelming.

“Report—!” Another rider dashed in, Han cavalry splitting like waves. The messenger lashed his mount furiously, shouting hoarsely, and in an instant reached Zhao Guangyuan.

Zhao felt a wave of relief as the order finally arrived. He seized the breathless messenger, “What are the commander’s orders?!”

The messenger gasped for breath, his expression strangely awkward, anxiety tinged with embarrassment. “…The commander… Commander told me…”

Zhao, thoroughly impatient and anger mounting, grabbed the messenger by the neck, “Damn it, speak up! Quickly!”

“Cough… cough… Commander wants you…” The messenger, nearly choking, struggled to shout, “…Commander wants you to grab your crotch and check if your balls are still there…”

“What the hell…?” Zhao was on the verge of snapping. He glanced back at his men, who all wore odd expressions. He froze for a moment, then abruptly realized what was happening. His face darkened, turning purple; he slapped the messenger off his horse, drew his saber without thinking, and vented his fury by beating his steed with the blade—without a word, he charged headlong into the Qing cavalry.

Suddenly, the Han cavalry erupted in wild laughter, then surged forward in force, tightly following their commander, storming toward the Qing troops like a hurricane.