Chapter Ten

The autumn wind blew bleakly across the land of Liaodong, and the grass was gradually withering and yellowing. Each night, the gusts sweeping in from Bohai grew ever colder, biting into the skin. Lin Feng wrapped himself tightly in a warm bearskin cloak, with a cotton mantle draped across his shoulders. He stood at the entrance of the central command tent, holding a monocular telescope, gazing from afar at the small enemy encampment opposite.

Late last month, after Lin Feng’s elite guard arrived at Jinzhou Prefecture, they rested briefly before marching toward Shenyang the following day. Prior to his arrival in Jinzhou, Wang Dahai, commander of the Second Infantry Army, had already led the main force westward, pressing toward Chengde and Rehe, intimidating the neighboring Eastern Mongolian Zhuotusu tribe and ensuring security for the war zone’s western flank.

Since Lin Feng had eradicated Kangxi’s faction entrenched in Beijing, and with the destruction of the Qing bandit central system, the Eastern Mongolian tribes gradually rallied beneath the grand banner of King Buryagma of the Khorchin. In truth, the so-called “Khorchin” had become a vague concept; originally, it was merely the strongest tribe among Eastern Mongolia, having long ago pledged allegiance to the Eight Banners bandits. As their masters prospered, so too did they, rising to become the overlord of the vast grasslands. Now, after Kangxi’s death, the Khorchin tribal alliance had lost all restraint. With the rise of the Han army, they wantonly invaded and annexed other Eastern Mongolian tribes, consolidating all tribes in Northeast China and forming a tripartite rivalry with the Tushiyetu and Dzungar tribes to the west.

Lin Feng’s available intelligence regarding this formidable adversary was limited, though this was not the fault of Wang Shirong’s intelligence department. The conditions of the seventeenth century made information transmission exceedingly difficult, and, more vexingly, ethnic tensions in China were at a peak. The Mongols of the Khorchin tribes harbored deep hostility toward Lin Feng’s Han-dominated regime. Even with agents disguised as merchants, obtaining valuable intelligence was rare and slow.

To ease the military pressure from the Eastern Mongolian tribes, the Han army had to abandon strategic strongholds such as Chengde and Rehe. Both sides tacitly agreed to designate Zhangjiakou as their trading city. Given the tense political climate, Buryagma no longer permitted Han trading caravans to penetrate the Mongolian grasslands, confining all commerce to Zhangjiakou, a border city. Based on bits and pieces of intelligence gathered by agents, Lin Feng only knew that King Buryagma was a man in his fifties, cunning and ruthless. Through war, coercion, and marriage alliances, he had extended his control west to Erlianhot, encompassing most of Heilongjiang and Jilin, with unprecedented territory. His military strength remained a mystery; though his royal tent army numbered five thousand cavalry, everyone knew the Mongols were nomads, half warrior, half civilian—every Mongol hero counted as a fighter. In times of war mobilization, who could say how many troops he could muster?

Due to the Han army’s recent establishment and the government’s strained finances, the troops lacked complete firearms and artillery, and their training was not yet extensive. Their combat effectiveness was still unproven.

Perhaps Lin Feng was overly sensitive about military command distribution; in truth, other Han generals cared little about Wang Dahai’s expanded forces. So far, Lin Feng had treated his chief lieutenants with equal fairness. The greatest military pressures lay with Zhao Liangdong, General of the North; Zhao Guangyuan, Mongolian General; and Wang Dahai, General of Peace in Liaodong. Aside from Wang Dahai’s four-thousand-man expansion, Zhao Liangdong’s Fifth Infantry Army, stationed at the vital city of Datong, received a dedicated fortress artillery unit. Besides their own red-coated cannons, nearly half of the Han army’s twenty imported Dutch cannons were assigned to Zhao’s forces. As for General Zhao Guangyuan, his strength was even greater. Thanks to the Han regime’s successful diplomatic policies with the Chahar tribe, nearly all Chahar troops were now under Han command. Thus, General Zhao commanded not only his own forces but also nearly five thousand Chahar troops.

It was clear this campaign was fraught with peril—almost a desperate gamble. Yet, in these chaotic times, Lin Feng had no choice. From his perspective, he could not allow the Eight Banners entrenched in Northern Manchuria to recover their strength.

War itself is a gamble. Who can avoid risk? The timid perish.

The second wave, Ma Ying’s Sixth Cavalry Army, arrived at Jinzhou from Shanhaiguan. Without even loosening their armor or saddles, they left behind infantry and artillery, and six thousand cavalry from three brigades charged deep into Qing territory, forming a “pin” shaped battle group by brigade, first striking diagonally to Tongliao, then advancing southward in a clockwise sweep, crushing all resistance in their path.

In sum, the old saying held true: Keep your head, don’t shave your hair; shave your hair, don’t keep your head.

Evidently, after large-scale slaughter, the great workshop and village had ceased to exist. Lin Feng felt little pity—war was war, governed by its own rules. Winning hearts and consolidating rule was a matter for after victory; fortune rarely allows one to have both fish and bear’s paw. From Ma Ying’s perspective, deep in enemy territory and surrounded, his troops could only use such methods to secure supplies and maintain their combat strength, thereby seizing advantage on the battlefield.

Tens of thousands labored for hours to clear the ruins, and on the open plain, the vantage from the small hill was broad. With the monocular telescope, Lin Feng could see the distant city walls of Tongliao.

Compared to military strongholds like Jinzhou and Shanhaiguan, the defenses of Liaoyang were hardly formidable. Judging by sight, the city walls were not tall, and in this dry season, the moat outside was nearly empty. Lin Feng understood, however, that cities beyond the pass never relied much on moats for defense—not because of insufficient rainfall, but because Northeast China endured harsh, long winters. When the freeze set in, the moat naturally became a thick layer of ice, easily crossed by troops or even heavy siege engines.

The true challenge was the city walls. After decades of Ming-Qing war, the fortifications of frontier strongholds were surprisingly solid. This region was likely the first in Chinese history to use siege artillery on a large scale. After repeated battles, defenders’ skills and investment in fortification had advanced greatly. For example, Tongliao’s walls were clad in hard blue stone, with the packed earth inside rammed to exceptional density. Yet beyond these, Lin Feng was most uncertain about street fighting.

After Ma Ying’s prior raid, the soldiers and citizens of Tongliao had clearly entered a state of shared resolve, prepared to fight to the death. According to earlier intelligence, Qing forces in Tongliao numbered just over four thousand, with a population of around 160,000 to 170,000. Of these, about forty thousand able-bodied men could be conscripted. Moreover, Liaoyang was a renowned metallurgical city, so the defenders’ equipment was quite good. Nearly twenty defensive cannons lined the city walls, and supplies—grain, arms, and other war materiel—had been stockpiled for over a year, sufficient for the garrison to hold out six to eight months.

It seemed a tough nut to crack.