Chapter 1083 - Bombardment
Then came the loading of gunpowder. The Dengzhou Army gunners used fixed charge bags, each weighing one jin. They loaded according to the range required. A soldier then tamped the powder tight with a ramrod. There was considerable art to this: pack it too tightly and the powder might smolder, causing a misfire. A loading spade would then be needed to loosen it—but during loosening, the powder might suddenly burn rapidly, with catastrophic results.
These gunners had all received Portuguese training, and their gestures and movements were highly standardized. A soldier inserted a wad into the bore, then a large ball wrapped in red cloth was sent into the chamber. Subsequently, a bag containing twelve smaller shot was loaded behind it. The patrol leader took another measurement with the gun ruler, adjusting the cannon's elevation according to the range.
This methodology represented high technology for the late Ming. The Dengzhou Army had been trained entirely by the Portuguese. Ordinary Ming Army gunners had no conception that firing a cannon involved so many essential steps.
Ma Linxi was moving cannonballs. A twelve-pound ball was not particularly heavy, but for a man who had subsisted on nothing but swill water and pot scrapings for days, it was still too much. Just as he was holding his breath to carry a ball, someone kicked him hard in the backside. He pitched forward instantly, performing a "dog eating mud" faceplant. The cannonball rolled away. Wild laughter erupted around him.
Ma Linxi scrambled up without daring to raise his head and ran straight for the ball. These cannonballs were precious. According to the gunner masters, each one cost several mace of silver.
With tremendous effort, he carried the ball back. The rebel gunners did not permit coolies to roll cannonballs along the ground, supposedly because scratching the surface or allowing mud and sand to adhere were both taboo. By the time Ma Linxi returned, his face was drenched in cold sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
A petty boss supervising the coolies sneered lazily from nearby: "Fast enough when it's time to eat, but can't muster any strength for work. Truly useless!" He drew his waist saber with a metallic rasp.
Ma Linxi was so terrified he dropped to his knees, begging for mercy repeatedly. Several coolies nearby collapsed to their knees as well, pleading frantically.
Fortunately, the boss was merely intimidating them. Seeing them trembling with fright one by one, he threw back his head and laughed. The coolies hurriedly rose and resumed moving cannonballs and powder.
Ma Linxi had been at this labor for more than ten days now. He had once been a carpenter, wandering through Huang County's countryside with tools on his back: repairing farm implements for people, building furniture, helping out when houses were constructed. Though he slept rough and earned hard money, at least one person eating his fill meant the whole family was not hungry.
After the rebels came, his entire village was razed to the ground. Ma Linxi had no choice but to "join the gang" along with the other refugees. Thanks to his craft, he had been assigned to the artillery team—they always needed repairs. In others' eyes, Ma Linxi had gained an enormous advantage. First, he could eat on a regular schedule. Whether the refugees assigned to infantry units had food depended entirely on luck and fists. The rebel soldiers tossed each team of refugees only a few baskets of black steamed buns—made from who knew what—each day. Mealtimes invariably devolved into brawls, claiming several lives.
Though in the artillery team he worked harder than an ox and ate less than a dog—the rebel soldiers used the coolies as slaves and beasts, whipping and tormenting them constantly, dragging men out to be beheaded with a single saber stroke for the slightest mistake—at least the work was marginally safer than the front lines. A few days ago, on the road hauling cannons to Huang County, a cannon had become mired in mud and the oxen couldn't pull it free. To motivate the coolies, the artillery team's Thousand-man Commander had beheaded several men in quick succession. Ma Linxi had suffered nightmares every night since.
Now Ma Linxi's mind was empty of everything but mechanical obedience to orders and a desperate focus on survival. If he could live, he would do whatever was demanded of him.
Seeing the gun positions fully established, Ma Linxi and the other artillery team coolies could catch their breath momentarily. They lay or sat wherever they stood, heavy panting filling the air. But no one dared speak—speaking could get you killed. They had learned this lesson the hard way.
The artillery team's Thousand-man Commander had no more interest in toying with them. He ordered the gunners to pierce the powder bags and heat the slow matches and firing probes red-hot. They awaited only the order to fire.
Near the shore, the first wave of refugees had barely managed to form up under the rebels' driving. Each team of fifty refugees was accompanied by three or four guards. These guards were all bandits and desperadoes whom the rebels had recruited locally. Most wore no armor, carrying only sabers and shields. They stationed themselves behind each refugee team, specifically tasked with driving and supervising the assault.
The guards and team leaders continuously encouraged the refugees:
"Break the stockade and the whole army gets rewarded with wine and meat..."
"Kill an enemy soldier—one white steamed bun and one tael of silver..."
"Anyone who dares retreat will be beheaded on the spot!"
Ma Linxi knew that of those charging in the first wave, perhaps three or four in a hundred might survive. He had seen too much these past days. The rebel soldiers treated commoners' lives as nothing more than fuel for consuming the defenders' ammunition and arrows, using corpses to fill the trenches.
Fortunately, his craft had saved his wretched life.
He was lost in anxious thoughts when suddenly a cannon report split the air. Everyone froze. Ma Linxi looked up and saw a plume of smoke rising from the sea surface. A graceful arc traced through the sky, coming straight toward the sandbar.
He stared, slack-jawed, for perhaps a second. Then, as if struck by sudden understanding, he threw himself to the ground and scrabbled behind a low mound on hands and knees.
Almost simultaneously, a cannonball fell from the sky and struck the ice beside the artillery team. It detonated with a tremendous bang.
Shrapnel from the exploding shell and shattered ice sprayed in all directions. Rebel soldiers and refugees who had not dodged in time screamed and collapsed, covered in blood.
Then more cannon fire erupted from the sea and from the fortress on the island. Against the clear blue sky, cannonballs trailing white smoke cut through the air, whistling as they fell in continuous succession onto the sandbar.
Shells rained down around the six Red Barbarian Cannons. Explosions were deafening, one overlapping another. Thick smoke and fierce flames engulfed the artillery team's entire position.
The Thousand-man Commander—who moments before had been so majestic, so decisive in his killing, who had chopped men down like slaughtering chickens—was now blasted into a dozen pieces of minced meat in the first bombardment. One of his arms landed on Ma Linxi's head, nearly scaring him to death.
Heavens above! These village braves' cannons are terrifying!
The thought had barely formed when a hissing sixty-eight-pound spherical explosive shell, sparks spurting from its fuse, fell directly onto a wheelbarrow loaded with ammunition. A flash of fire—and several gun carriages fully loaded with powder detonated simultaneously. The massive blast wave lifted Ma Linxi bodily from the ground.
For a moment, Ma Linxi was certain he had died. He could not breathe at all. His vision went black. A long time seemed to pass before he regained awareness. The world was spinning. His ears buzzed with a high whine; he could hear nothing. Before his eyes, everything was black and red and burning hot. When he could finally orient himself, he saw Qian Erleng—the coolie who had been working beside him—lying motionless beneath a blown-off wheel, drenched in blood. Qian Erleng had once given him half a bowl of noodle soup; they had been friends in adversity. Ma Linxi crawled over frantically and pushed at him. Qian Erleng rolled over with a soft gulu sound, tumbling down from the sandbar, leaving a trail of blood and scattered intestines across the ground. Only the half above his chest remained—as if some giant hay-cutter had sliced him in two.
Ma Linxi did not know if he screamed. He could hear nothing. He could only see vehicles, cannons, and human corpses mixing with soil, constantly hurled upward, torn apart, falling again. He let out a silent scream and drove his head hard into the earth.
On the bridge of the Daishuang, Lu Yang searched the sandbar through a telescope—in vain. Thick black smoke rolled over the target area. Cannonballs fired from the warships and from the Willow Palisade bastions had completely blanketed the zone. At such distance, he could not assess the bombardment's effect at all.
Still, given this volume of fire, the rebel artillery team—fully exposed on the open ground—should no longer exist. Through the telescope, he had observed at least three powder mass explosions.
A "cease fire" signal rocket rose from Qimu Island.
"All ships cease fire!" he ordered, striding quickly to the radio. As expected, Chen Sigen was calling.
"The artillery position has been eliminated. Shift fire to area 2976 in five minutes. Use shrapnel!"
"Shift fire to area 2976 in five minutes—shrapnel shells!" Lu Yang repeated the order. The gunnery officer and several sergeants bent over the plotting table, working tensely with slide rules and dividers.
To save calculation time and accommodate artillery command personnel with limited education, they had adopted a numbered grid firing system. The area surrounding Qimu Island had been divided into numbered grids, each with its own specific range table. This ensured they could concentrate fire on any sector within the shortest possible time.
The 130mm cannons on Gunboat 901 trailed wisps of white smoke. Gunners were swabbing the bores at maximum speed, clearing residue from continuous firing to cool the barrels as quickly as possible.
Cone-shaped shrapnel shells and cylindrical silk powder bags had already been hoisted to the deck by pulleys, awaiting loading.
Chen Sigen lowered his telescope. The sea breeze had cleared the distant smoke. Though the burning gun carriages continued to emit rolling black clouds, not a single intact cannon—not a single living person—could be seen through the lens. The power of massed explosive shell fire was truly astonishing. With the greatest threat neutralized, what remained was merely a rabble.
He looked down from the observation platform to the gun emplacements below. Two naval sixty-eight-pound carronades had already returned to horizontal positions, and gunners were rapidly swabbing their bores. The direct-fire range of these weapons was extremely short—only about fifty meters. But their shells carried devastating power, and their effect against wooden ships was terrifying. Chen Sigen had no ship targets available, so he had employed them in a mortar-like role.
When firing in a high arc, a carronade's trajectory resembled a mortar's, naturally extending its range considerably. The sixty-eight-pound explosive shells fired continuously moments ago had demonstrated power that far exceeded Chen Sigen's most optimistic estimates—the effect of densely packed black powder charges was remarkable.
A few more rounds of shrapnel, and he was confident the enemy would rout.
"Load shrapnel—all guns!" He issued the command. Every cannon on the Willow Palisade bastion—including the two sixty-eight-pound carronades and four twenty-four-pound smoothbore chase guns—began loading this terrible munition.
(End of Chapter)