Chapter Seventeen

The surrendered Qing cavalry found themselves in an incredibly awkward position. In truth, they had never made any explicit declaration of surrender to the Han army, but now they had lost all ability to fight. Thousands sat atop their warhorses, gripping lances and sabers in utter confusion, powerless as they watched the Han soldiers charge forward with thunderous shouts, sweeping past them as if they didn’t exist, single-mindedly pursuing the fleeing enemy.

Lin Feng galloped wildly, and it wasn’t until he reached the center of the battlefield that the severity of the situation struck him: nearly four thousand Qing cavalrymen still stood armed. Though at the moment they showed no hostility, it was nonetheless a dangerous predicament. As the Han infantry surged forward and musket fire rang out on all sides, the Qing soldiers exchanged anxious glances, paralyzed by uncertainty. In his urgency, Lin Feng shouted loudly, “Qing brothers, take off your hats—take off your hats!”

His personal guard immediately echoed his command, the order spreading across the battlefield in an instant. The Han soldiers, in the heat of pursuit, also began shouting the same words. The unified cry of the three armies left the Qing cavalry looking dazed. A few here and there removed their hats and helmet tassels, but most hesitated, their sabers still clutched tightly in hand.

He clapped Sun Sike on the shoulder. “Old Sun, I’m not one for empty pleasantries—how would you like the post of brigade commander?!” Seeing Sun Sike about to refuse, Lin Feng waved his hand and continued, “This brigade commander, well, it means leading two thousand men and horses. There’s no help for it—our forces are small, so you’ll have to bear with it for now...” He gave Sun Sike another hearty slap on the shoulder, not allowing any protest, then gestured at the surrounding Qing soldiers with a loud laugh. “So many brothers are looking to you expectantly—you’re a real man, aren’t you? Surely you won’t think the office too lowly?”

Sun Sike’s expression was strange; for a moment, he didn’t know what to say, and stood there, dumbfounded. Lin Feng chuckled, circled behind him, and suddenly drew his saber. Seizing Sun Sike’s queue, he sliced it off with a single stroke, then held up the severed hair and loudly proclaimed, “From this moment on, General Sun Sike is a great general of the Han army!” He turned to his own guards and beckoned, “What are you waiting for? Salute Brigade Commander Sun!”

Zhou Peigong dismounted with a broad grin, bowing deeply. “Humble subordinate Zhou Peigong, greetings to General Sun!” The guards behind him also jumped down and saluted, leaving Sun Sike flustered as he hurried to return their bows.

Seeing the surrounding Qing soldiers gaze on with envy, Lin Feng suddenly remounted and issued a bold command, “All officers and men, heed my order—mount up!!”

The Qing soldiers stared for a moment, then, seeing Lin Feng’s guards leap nimbly onto their horses, realized they now served a new master and quickly followed suit.

“Draw sabers!!”

With a sharp, unified sound, the cavalry drew their blades without hesitation, every man well-trained; row upon row of gleaming sabers rose to shoulder height, flashing in the sunlight.

Thousands burst into hearty laughter, the cavalry in the rear letting out wild shouts in all manner of accents, spurring their horses and following closely behind the great “Lin” banner.

The Han infantry, in the flush of victory, were almost too exuberant; after running madly for several miles, they began to flag. Witnessing this, Lin Feng felt a wave of frustration. Truth be told, both he and his officers bore responsibility for this: they had focused single-mindedly on drill and combat training, never considering the need for forced marches. Now, the Han soldiers resembled a bunch of American GIs—how could he have forgotten the glorious traditions of the Party and the Army? It was not enough to fight; they had to be able to run as well.

Although small groups of Banner troops occasionally turned to make desperate rearguard attacks, they were hopelessly outmatched. Before long, Tuhai realized he had no way out: a long canal blocked their path.

This river was not, in fact, a canal; its proper name was the Sha River, but Lin Feng and his unlettered followers from elsewhere had lumped it together with the Grand Canal. It was late autumn, and though the water was not deep, it was still sufficient to drown several hundred men.

When Lin Feng and his forces arrived, the battle was nearly over. Tuhai’s detachment had dwindled to fewer than two hundred riders. Trapped with no escape, these fierce warriors mustered astonishing strength, wheeling their horses for a final suicidal charge against the Han pursuers. Yet at that moment, courage was no remedy. Unexpectedly, the most ferocious fighters among the attackers were not Zhao Guangyuan’s Han cavalry, but rather the very first batch of defectors—those who had turned and joined the pursuit. Faced with the Banner troops’ desperate counterattack, the former Qing cavalry showed no fear, matching violence with violence, racing ahead of the Han to strike first. At the height of the melee, they fought with such savagery that they were willing to trade life for life. Witnessing this, Zhao Guangyuan and Zhou Peigong, who had arrived moments later, were left dumbfounded—but Lin Feng understood. This was a classic case of the traitor’s mentality: countless later events would prove that, after betraying their old side, people often suffered a kind of mild psychological split. Wracked by guilt, fear, and uncertainty about the future, they would treat former comrades even more ruthlessly than the enemy.

Before thousands of witnesses, Zhao Guangyuan sent in his last reserves. The final remnants of Tuhai’s command collapsed in an instant. The defectors mercilessly hacked the wounded, finishing off those already writhing on the ground, and closed in, encircling Tuhai and his last dozen officers so tightly that not a gap remained.

“Cease attack!” several messengers galloped up from the rear, shouting the order, startling the fighting cavalry. Zhao Guangyuan turned around in surprise, glanced at the blood-soaked Tuhai, and reluctantly called his men to obey.

The messengers plunged across the field, not slowing as they rode straight into the crowd, shouting from afar, “Tuhai—will you surrender?!”

At these words, apart from the newly defected cavalry, Lin Feng’s guards and Han cavalry all shouted as one, “Will you surrender?!—Will you surrender?!” Over a thousand men raised their weapons, spears and halberds bristling like a forest, the aura of veterans pressing in on the enemy.

The shouting faded and eventually died away, and for a moment, the battlefield was utterly silent. Under thousands of eyes—hostile, excited, sympathetic, guilty—Tuhai sat astride his horse, chest heaving, coughing harshly. Each cough sent blood spraying from the dozen wounds that covered his body, streaming down his horse’s flanks until a shallow pool formed beneath its hooves.

Tuhai stared blankly, his gaze roaming the opposing ranks as if searching for something. He felt utterly drained; even holding his saber was a struggle. It suddenly struck him that he was over fifty years old now, no longer a fierce warrior.

The enemy ranks parted like a tide, and a plain white standard appeared, the character “Lin” streaming in the wind. Tuhai squinted, staring fixedly at that banner before his gaze drifted downward to the young man mounted below, who looked at him with pity.

The sunlight was blinding.

Tuhai managed a bitter smile. Slowly, he straightened, reaching out to stroke his horse’s mane. The exhausted beast shook its head, licked his fingers affectionately, then lowered its head to graze hungrily on the fresh grass at the water’s edge.

Tuhai gently caressed his beloved steed, then raised his head and extended his hand, giving Lin Feng a distant thumbs-up. As Lin Feng watched in surprise, Tuhai suddenly seized his saber, drew it across his neck with a fierce motion, and toppled from his horse.

A dozen officers by the river let out anguished cries and slew themselves in unison.

Lin Feng sighed, weakly waving his hand. “Cut off his head—and give him a proper burial!” As Zhou Peigong stood in confusion at the contradictory order, Lin Feng abruptly tugged his reins, his horse rearing with a long neigh as he led his guard away in a cloud of dust.