Chapter 173: A Strange Victory (Part 2)
Battle Statistics:
Results: 102 killed in action, 70 died of wounds, 213 prisoners (35 lightly wounded). Captured over 400 melee weapons, seven three-barreled muskets, and seven warhorses. Tonight's dinner: the eighth horse—it had a broken leg.
Our casualties: 11 lightly wounded, 10 from twisted ankles or falls during the pursuit—running through freshly harvested paddies was indeed hazardous. One soldier suffered a crushed foot from dropping an artillery shell.
By afternoon, processing of the prisoners was mostly complete. Per Ma Qianzhu's instructions, they received food—the cafeteria's unchanging prisoner fare of thin congee. The captives were clearly still terrified, eyeing the transmigrators' provisions with fearful glances. Finally, someone brave and hungry enough began gulping down the porridge. With one man leading the way, the rest mobbed the rice bucket in a shoving frenzy until the guards' shouting prevented the scramble from erupting into actual fights.
Now the transmigrators could observe the legendary Ming-era pirates up close: a chaotic cluster of peasants squatting together in the dirt. Not one of them wore decent clothes—bare-chested or in thin jackets, their filthy, stinking, ragged garments looked ready to disintegrate at any moment. Through gaps in the fabric, their bamboo-jointed ribs and bloated bellies were plainly visible.
Xiong Buyu, accompanied by his translators and Security personnel, was working them over intensely. About ten men stood out from the rest—more alert, eating without scrambling, their faces expressionless in a way that suggested dull depression. But occasional furtive glances betrayed hidden scheming.
"These should be the core members," Ran Yao observed. "Start with them."
Preliminary interrogations confirmed the pirates belonged to Zhu Cailao's gang. Fifty were veterans; the rest had been recruited within the past half-month and had no combat experience whatsoever—pure cannon fodder. Most absurdly, several dozen turned out to be Lingao rear-garrison military households. The Liu qianhu from that garrison regularly rented out his weapons, vessels, and military households to pirates for extra income. A qianhu colluding with pirates was nothing unusual; coastal garrisons maintained various relationships with maritime powers.
But among all the prisoners, there was not a single leader-level figure. Last time they had at least captured the ship-captain Shi Shisi. This time, not one decent commander. The pirates had landed at dawn from five large ships at Shipai, then advanced under a "steward's" command. That steward was either dead or had escaped—he was not among the prisoners, nor could he be identified among the cannon-pulverized corpses.
Most prisoners only knew they had come to attack some "bald bandits." Recruiters had told them these bandits had stolen a great deal of treasure from Boss Zhu, and that Bairren Beach was all wealth. Boss Zhu was attacking for revenge, and all the loot would belong to them. Among the captured items, many weapons bore Zhu Cailao's marks and insignia, and some corpses carried his documents and command flags. Looking over the testimonies and evidence, Ran Yao frowned.
As dusk fell, laughter and chatter echoed through the transmigrator camps. Zhu Cailao was nothing special after all. Zhang Bailin grinned from ear to ear—today's battle had been a triumph for the artillery. Eighty rounds had routed over four hundred pirates.
The cafeteria butchered the dead horse, providing the Training Battalion with a feast of meat and offal. Though it was horse meat, the cafeteria had fish sauce, spices, and abundant salt at their disposal. Compared to the typical plain-boiled meat from dead horses, this was the difference between heaven and earth. Wu Nanhai also rendered some horse fat—it smelled foul, but it made fried food fragrant. Beijing's famous jianbing guanzi used horse fat for frying. Without the guanzi crackers, Wu Nanhai fried dried pumpkin slices and poured chopped garlic over them. The soldiers enthusiastically welcomed the dish. Compared to each person's small portion of meat and offal, this unlimited, fatty food better satisfied everyone's cravings.
Huang Xiong received his small bowl of horse meat and offal. He poked at it with his chopsticks—a few meat slices, some intestine and lung pieces—intensely fragrant from the spices. Though tough, it was deliciously savory. As a former Ming officer, he had eaten dead mule and horse meat before, but never prepared this well. Looking around, the entire company was eating and making satisfied sounds. Two victories, yet these Chiefs were stingy—just one horse meat meal! Huang Xiong had expected some silver reward. But reconsidering the two battles, he had done nothing but stand in formation holding a rifle. Everything had been won by the artillery.
Looking around again, he noticed that Company Commander Old Tiger You and the platoon commanders were also eating horse meat and fried pumpkin, their bowls filled with brown rice. On this point, Huang Xiong admired these Chiefs' officer-soldier equality—besides extra equipment, officers received no special treatment. Same food and clothing. Housing was just a single room in the barracks. Except for weekly "weekends" at Bairren Fortress, they enjoyed no luxuries—not even someone to make their beds.
While eating, he overheard soldiers discussing the two battles:
"...If all fighting is like this, soldiering is easy..."
"The Chiefs' cannons are so powerful. Who can stop us?"
"You think the Chiefs are planning... you know?"
"Stop pretending you don't know. Rebellion? I think maybe."
"Rebellion means entire family execution—"
"Execute what? Those regular army weaklings? There's nothing to fear in rebellion." This one started dreaming aloud. "If the rebellion succeeds, we'll all be founding fathers. Each of us will get thousands of mu of land."
"I want a wife. Over twenty and never even touched a woman's hand."
"One wife? I want a dozen, just like the city tycoons!"
"You're skin and bones. Won't a dozen wives grind you to dust?"
...
Huang Xiong's heart stirred. He had come seeking refuge as a criminal. Looking now, these "bald bandits" clearly had grand ambitions. Even if not outright rebellion, they had at least regional warlord aspirations. While he was pondering, a soldier asked him directly:
"Squad Leader Huang, do you think the Chiefs have such intentions?"
Huang Xiong set down his bowl. "How would I know? But these two opponents were trash. Against regular troops, it wouldn't be this easy."
"But our cannons—"
"Regulars have them too. Red-Barbarian cannons." Huang Xiong had seen his garrison's artillery drills. These cannons operated similarly to Red-Barbarian cannons but seemed lighter and more transportable. "Besides, the Liao garrison has Red-Barbarian cannons. So what? They still got smashed by the Jurchens. Can your cannons fire continuously? Jurchens rely on fast horses and sharp arrows. One shot kills maybe a dozen; meanwhile, several hundred cavalry charge dozens of paces closer. A few shots and the cavalry are in your formation. Then it's infantry melee."
This frightened the soldiers, dampening the festive mood. Huang Xiong suddenly became alert. What was he doing? In a garrison army, this would be "undermining morale"—he would be dragged out and beheaded immediately. Why was he saying this?
He quickly changed the subject. "This is Qiongzhou. The Jurchens are ten thousand li away. Why panic? Brothers won't be fighting in Liaodong."
He glanced around for outsiders, then rambled about miscellaneous anecdotes to divert the soldiers' attention.
The setting sun slowly descended over Bopu's Lingao Point. The newly restored beacon tower stood tall against the fading light. The newly completed gun emplacement housed a 12-pounder cannon pointing seaward. The tower had a searchlight. Li Di, wearing radio and night vision equipment, stood watch with two Navy sentries.
Looking toward Bairren Fortress, the day's bustle was quieting. Outside the fortress walls, on-duty personnel lit bonfires. Inside, many departments still showed scattered lights—people still working. Here at Bopu, the charcoal kilns glowed fiercely against the dark. A fishy stench drifted on the wind from the seafood processing plant. At the river mouth, the Fengcheng showed faint lights that almost blended with the starry sky.
Every few minutes, Li Di surveyed the surroundings with his night vision binoculars. Bopu was no longer like the early days when a ring camp had sufficed. Work sites had expanded considerably. Though key points had ring defenses, blanket illumination like before was now impossible. Besides lighting at key intersections, they relied more on night vision equipment and hidden sentries. The transmigrators still could not fully trust native soldiers, so night watch duties always fell to transmigrators or transmigrator-led teams.
Through his binoculars, he spotted several figures slowly approaching the beach camp. Their outlines suggested friendlies, but protocol required notifying the hidden sentries.
"Tan Ming, Tan Ming. Someone approaching your position."
"Understood." Tan Ming, on duty at the river mouth, was from the Construction Team. His excellent physique and hardworking nature had gotten him drafted into the core militia—daytime work plus night duty. The perks: extra access to currently-scarce items like cigarettes, canned goods, and cola. Core militia also regularly watched movies: first military educational films, second various commercial films, and third was late-night fare—not for good children.
"Password!"
"Refrigerator! Response?"
"Haier! Which department?" Tan Ming gripped his SKS rifle.
"I'm Wu De from Bairren Commune!" The dark-faced man approaching had several uniformed men behind him.
So it was Wu De—a big official! Tan Ming snapped to attention, his speech becoming flustered: "Director Wu—no, Commune Chief—"
"Just call me A-De. You're not a native." Wu De had never seen a transmigrator so respectful toward him.
"I'm Tan Ming from the Construction Team—" Tan Ming felt a bit embarrassed. Years at society's bottom made one this way. He felt a little sad.
Wu De vaguely remembered this person from the early construction days when he had dealt frequently with the Construction Team. "You're 'Fat Ming,' right?" He matched the nickname with the face from deep memory. Actually, the nickname was now inaccurate—long-term labor and high-protein, low-fat intake had made him quite fit, not "fat" at all.
"Right, right! I'm 'Fat Ming'! You remember me!"
"We used to meet at the worksite all the time." Wu De saw he wanted to reminisce, but this was a hidden sentry position—chatting here was inappropriate. Plus, he had business. "I need to board the Fengcheng. Where do I embark?"
"Go to the Navy Harbor Office below Lingao Point Fort. They manage everything here."
Wu De shook his head. The Navy's aggressive territorial ambitions were not a good sign. Though Navy-born himself, long Executive Committee work had given him a broader perspective. He disapproved of the current Army-Navy tensions. This trip, he also wanted to speak with He Ming, Ming Qiu, and other veterans.
(End of Chapter)