Chapter Fifteen

At the very forefront, the Qing cavalry finally demonstrated their superior individual combat skills. They rose high in their stirrups and loosed a volley of arrows, sending dozens of Ming cavalrymen groaning to the earth, who were then trampled to oblivion. In a matter of heartbeats, the two cavalry forces crashed into each other with brutal force. The long-muted cries of battle soared once again, mingling with the clamor of clashing blades and armor. In an instant, blood and flesh flew everywhere as men fell from their mounts in the chaos, severed limbs tossed high into the air. Mighty hooves rose and fell, crushing bodies beneath them; heads, still tethered by ragged sinew, were kicked about like playthings. At times, frenzied riders spurred their horses directly into the enemy ranks, and those caught unprepared—man or horse—were smashed into pulp and flung far from the fray.

At the very first contact, before the two forces could even pass through one another, the grassland for miles around was dyed crimson, the carnage reaching its dreadful peak.

Lin Feng stood atop a small hill, his face ashen, peering through a spyglass to observe the battlefield. The cavalry’s desperate resistance bought precious time for the central Ming forces—the musketeers and artillerymen—to hastily establish their defensive positions. Around this modest hill, barely a hundred meters above sea level, they formed an elliptical formation. With only a few mule carts brought along, the Ming had little means to erect obstacles at the front. Instead, they destroyed what little lay ahead of the line in scattered patches, hoping these scant obstructions might serve some purpose. Under the officers’ orders, squads of musketeers wielded sabers and dug feverishly, trying to create as many horse traps as time allowed.

“Commander!” Shi Lang, observing the battle not far away, rode up the hill in alarm. “Commander, the enemy let General Zhao through on purpose! They want our own cavalry to throw our lines into chaos!”

Lin Feng was struck by sudden comprehension. No wonder Zhao Guangyuan’s breakthrough had gone so smoothly. He replied in a booming voice, “General Shi! I appoint you to command the vanguard. Hold the Qing forces at all costs! Not one step back!”

“Your subordinate obeys!” Shi Lang saluted from horseback and swiftly rode back down the hill.

“Captain Reick!” Lin Feng turned. “Reick, take your position on the second line. Remember—no one is to retreat, not even General Shi. Is that clear?”

“General Shi?” Reick looked puzzled.

“Of course,” Lin Feng snarled, “and that includes you. Mark my words, sir: if you so much as take a single step back, I will not hesitate to put a bullet through your skull. Understood?”

Reick appeared somewhat offended. “Naturally, sir. But I assure you, you will not have the opportunity—I will die with my men! Until then, might I suggest you—”

“Enough, sir. A true knight lets his sword do the talking!” Lin Feng waved him off, cutting short any protest.

“Ready arms!” Shi Lang stood at the flank of the formation and roared his command. His order was echoed repeatedly by the officers, and the foremost rank of musketeers immediately knelt. Facing the ghastly scene before them, most felt sick to their stomachs, their limbs trembling and calves cramping, but the monotonous months of training drove them to instinctively obey. A long line of black barrels extended forward in unison, looking from afar like some writhing caterpillar.

Not far ahead, the Qing cavalry had just reformed their ranks. Without a moment’s rest, and goaded by the pounding of ox-hide drums and the blare of horns, they urged their horses toward the Ming formation. With several wild cries, the cavalry surged forward, thousands of warhorses thundering across the earth in a frenzied charge. The tightly packed ranks began to scatter as they galloped, splitting into dozens of smaller squadrons that wove deftly through the mule carts and obstacles. Occasionally, a horse would stumble into a trap, neighing in agony as it fell and tumbled.

At a glance, the Qing formation seemed altogether chaotic, their direction of attack shifting again and again. By the time they closed with the Ming line, they’d already described half a circle around it; small squadrons darted back and forth, crisscrossing before the formation. The riders stood high in their stirrups, using their horses’ momentum to loose arrows before the musketeers could fire. A shower of arrows thudded into the earth before the line; a few, driven with particular force, found their mark within the ranks, inflicting light casualties.

Shi Lang pressed his lips into a thin line, his dark face tinged with red. He watched the relentless advance of the Qing cavalry in silence. The officers around him grew anxious; even the front-line soldiers glanced back nervously, but he gave no order to fire. The Qing rode back and forth, loosing arrows without restraint, tightening the noose around the Ming line with each pass.

The Qing drew ever closer, arrows falling like rain. The once-dense front ranks of the Ming had thinned noticeably. Occasionally, a man pierced by an arrow would cry out in agony, blood gushing as he was dragged away by those behind.

“Anyone who fires without orders—beheaded!” Shi Lang suddenly bellowed, his face now dark purple with suppressed tension. The officers around him were shocked. A young officer could not help but protest, “General, they’re within range! What are you thinking?” His face was twisted with anger, veins bulging on his fist as he gripped his saber, teeth clenched. “What is your intention?”

Shi Lang turned slightly, casting a cold glance askance, but said nothing and looked away. The officers’ expressions changed sharply as they all placed hands on their hilts. Seemingly unaware, Shi Lang unfastened his water skin, took long gulps, then wiped his mouth and gazed up at the sun, as if something in the sky fascinated him.

“General Shi,” an older officer stepped forward, his tone severe, “If you do not order them to fire, the men’s morale will collapse!” He gripped his saber tightly. Were it not for Lin Feng’s direct appointment, the man might have cut Shi Lang down on the spot.

“You’re an old soldier, aren’t you? Served under Commander Lin since Linji County?” Shi Lang did not turn around. He smiled faintly, a hint of mockery on his face. “If you’d ever seen Dutch troops in action, you wouldn’t ask such a question.”

The sudden and fierce volley left the Qing cavalry momentarily dumbstruck. They ceased firing and stared blankly at the carnage before them, where comrades lay in heaps. Amidst the bodies, a Qing soldier crawled forward, struggling to stand under the awed gaze of both armies. He staggered to his feet, face vacant, eye sockets empty; the left side of his face a bloody ruin, half his cheekbone sheared away by grapeshot, exposing white bone beneath. Blood streamed from his ghoulish visage as he wandered dazedly toward the Ming line, but before he had gone more than a few paces, several bullets struck him down into the blood-soaked grass.

The horns blared, the drums beat all the faster, and another wave of cavalry poured onto the field. The Qing commander at the rear pressed the attack relentlessly. The dazed Qing soldiers shook themselves as if waking from a dream, and under the officers’ shouted orders, spurred their horses forward at a gallop.

This time, the cavalry approached more cautiously, their formation even looser. The commanding officers, now aware of the differences in effective range, forced their men forward to fire arrows despite the danger. Wave after wave of arrows rained down. The Ming soldiers, firing in line, suffered heavy casualties; many were pierced clean through by powerful long arrows. The once-dense ranks thinned rapidly as the armored horsemen pressed ever closer. Some musketeers broke, throwing down their guns and fleeing in terror, only to be cut down by furious officers before they had gone more than a few steps.

Shi Lang, now in utter disarray, had lost all trace of his earlier composure. Wielding his bloodied saber, he dashed back and forth amid the roar of musket fire, berating his panic-stricken subordinates. At this point, more than half of his three battalions of musketeers had become casualties. The small cannons at the front, red-hot from constant firing, were now almost silent; their crews had been decimated. In his desperation, a sudden volley of long arrows came whistling in. One of his personal guards hurled him to the ground, taking an arrow through his own body in Shi Lang’s place.

Grief overwhelmed Shi Lang. This guard was an old brother-in-arms from Taiwan, one who had weathered countless storms by his side—now dead here. He sat heavily on the ground, clutching the corpse, heart sinking as the fire slackened and the Qing cavalry pressed their advantage, surging forward across the entire line. He turned and looked up the hillside, where Lin Feng stood cold and grim with his spyglass, whispering orders to his messenger.

Through his daze, Shi Lang heard a sudden cheer from the front ranks. To his delight, he saw Reick leading the reserve forward, their lines steady as they advanced. Somehow, strength returned to him. He leapt to his feet, waving his long saber and bellowing, “Fire! Open fire! Ready the guns—” But before he could finish, a sharp pain struck his back. An arrow had pierced his armor and buried itself deep in his flesh. Dizzy, he slumped to the ground again. In a haze, he heard a voice speaking clumsy Chinese: “Oh! My God, you’re wounded…”

Gritting his teeth, Shi Lang nodded to Reick. The foreign captain gave a faint smile. “Though the general forbade your retreat, I believe you are now entitled to withdraw with honor!”