Chapter 1084 - All the Cards
The bombardment had not merely annihilated the rebel Red Barbarian artillery team—several shells had also landed amidst the dense rebel formations waiting nearby, instantly killing fifty or sixty men and wounding over a hundred more. The ground was carpeted with fragments of flesh and blood, and the screams of the wounded rose in a chorus of agony.
The rebel troops, who had barely managed to form ranks, dissolved into chaos. Some refugees tried to turn and flee. Fortunately, no more shells followed. Mao Chenglu's subordinates closed in from all sides, beheading more than a dozen men before the formation could be stabilized.
Mao Chenglu's expression had turned ugly. Though these few salvos had not killed vast numbers, the destruction of the Red Barbarian artillery team—his critical advantage—had dramatically complicated the task of taking this stockade.
What surprised him most was the power of the enemy's artillery. He had seen explosive shells before, but never with such devastating effect. Even the massive "Ten Thousand Men Enemy" fortress bombs—so heavy they required two men to move—were not so formidable as the shells that had just fallen. Let alone ordinary cannonballs.
The explosive shells the Great Ming army typically fired were actually a form of poison gas munition: the shell contained a small charge of powder as detonator, with the remainder consisting mainly of sulfur, lime, and various toxic medicinal substances like croton. Upon detonation, they dispersed noxious smoke. Another type was indeed a grenade, but its charge was minimal; after landing it merely split into two halves. Neither approached the power of solid shot or grapeshot. Consequently, such weapons saw limited use.
It seemed the enemy's bird guns were not the only things that were sharp—their cannons were also far superior to his own. Mao Chenglu felt a cold knot forming in his stomach. The enemy had ceased fire; evidently their intense barrage had overheated the guns, and they must be resting them now.
Sixteenth and seventeenth-century cannons, constrained by primitive smelting and casting techniques, possessed low barrel strength. This necessitated heavy barrel weights and limited rates of fire—at most twelve to fifteen rounds per hour, and no more than sixty to eighty rounds per day, even with large quantities of vinegar available for forced cooling.
Mao Chenglu did not know the quality of the enemy's cannons. But the concentrated fire moments before led him to believe the enemy's guns must now be in their cooling phase—an excellent opportunity for his forces to launch an assault.
"Beat the drums!" he commanded loudly. "First wave—advance!"
The drums hammered out a rapid cadence. The refugee soldiers of the first wave began to stir. They had been terrified witless by the dense artillery fire moments before. Whatever courage they had mustered was long gone. Many had been moved only by that momentary surge of blood and bravado. Now that death had been presented so simply and bloodily before them, nearly everyone shrank back.
More than a thousand people pressed together, refusing to advance.
The rebel soldiers were experienced with this. Without waiting for orders, the moment the second drum roll sounded, the supervising soldiers raised their great sabers and beheaded several men at the rear of the column.
"Those who do not advance—beheaded!" Screams erupted behind them; the supervisors' roars thundered in their ears. The crowd at the rear surged forward, forcing those in front to move as well.
On the Willow Palisade fortress, reports arrived from every quarter: the cannons were ready and could open fire at any time.
Chen Sigen raised his telescope. The first wave—composed of refugees—had already mounted the sandbar. Watching the chaotic mob surging densely toward the Willow Palisade, those wretched figures being driven to their deaths, he felt increasingly unable to bear it. Yet the gun positions had already been assigned targets. He hesitated a moment, then gave the order: "Fire!"
A signal rocket climbed into the sky. Every cannon on the Willow Palisade fortress and in the Qimu Island detachment fleet fired simultaneously. Because targets had been predesignated with range tables, the first salvo struck the target area with precision.
This time, the guns were not aimed at the refugees rushing at the very front but at the main body of troops waiting to join the assault behind them. Chen Sigen hoped that shelling the rear would directly trigger a rout, minimizing the number of deaths.
The thunder of cannons alarmed Mao Chenglu and his subordinate officers observing the formation. What—they're firing again? How many cannons do they have?
Even as the thought formed, smoke trails arced from the island battery and the bay, streaking toward the shore. But this time the shells did not fall directly. Instead, they burst in mid-air, instantly spraying dozens to hundreds of small iron balls toward the ground.
The pellets descended like a steel rainstorm. Wherever they fell, flesh and blood flew, severed limbs scattered, and impacts on the ground kicked up dust half as tall as a man. The disorganized refugees at the formation's front routed immediately—but even the rebel combat soldiers waiting to join the assault were terror-struck and fled in all directions. Some simply rolled off the sandbar onto the ice, scrambling wildly toward the shore.
Mao Chenglu's face went pale. Dengzhou's gunners were reputed to be the finest in the Ming military, both in rate of fire and concentration. Yet in his current experience, the enemy's artillery seemed to pour forth in an unbroken stream, never ceasing.
Wave after wave of iron ball storms swept across the already disintegrating formation. Weeping, shouting, screaming, and meaningless shrieks of panic filled the air. Even in those military units not yet directly affected, soldiers were visibly agitated, trembling with fear.
The first wave that had approached the Willow Palisade was awed into paralysis. Though only a few shells had fallen among them, every man turned and fled as one. Even the supervising rebel soldiers forgot to swing their sabers and ran along with the crowd. In an instant, countless discarded rags littered the sandbar.
Here in the central army, Mao Chenglu's house guards and combat soldiers were stirring uneasily. Fear had taken root in every heart. Death by sword or spear—these veteran ruffians could accept. But standing here, being killed alive without even glimpsing the enemy—this was a feeling of pure despair.
Mao Chenglu and his officers exchanged grim looks. Though this barrage had only routed the formation of several thousand refugees, with relatively few rebel combat soldiers among the casualties, watching nearly ten thousand men collapse into chaos the moment the enemy opened fire made one thing clear: this battle could no longer be fought.
Many could be an advantage, but it could also be a liability. Mao Chenglu understood this principle well. If this "army of one hundred thousand" truly fell into uncontrollable chaos, he might be trampled to death before he could even attempt to flee.
His face ashen, he cracked his horse whip. "House guard squad—forward! Restore order to this rabble and get them charging again!"
The mounted guards galloped out, intercepting routed soldiers everywhere. The refugees were easy to manage—unarmed, they had no choice but to halt and await reorganization once a few had been beheaded. The veteran army ruffians were another matter. They did not hesitate to resist with drawn sabers, and in many places brawls broke out among themselves.
On Qimu Island, many village braves from the Advance Column were helping transport ammunition at the Willow Palisade fortress. They had never witnessed the power of heavy cannon fire. Though they knew the masters' "bird guns" were devastatingly effective, a bird gun was still just a bird gun. They had not expected the great cannons to be even more formidable. Twenty or thirty shots had routed the enemy before they could even approach. The entire fortress erupted in beaming smiles and loud cheering.
Just then, a messenger arrived in haste with important news for Chen Sigen.
The observation post had just confirmed through the battery telescope that the rebel central army was positioned at azimuth 4471.
Chen Sigen consulted the plotting board and raised his telescope again. That position was quite distant from Qimu Island—a full eighteen hundred meters in a straight line. In this era, no cannon could reach such a range. It seemed Mao Chenglu had tricks of his own. Chen Sigen gave another order: "All guns cease fire. Load explosive shells. Target azimuth 4471 in five minutes!" He added: "Prepare for rapid fire!"
With range extended to eighteen hundred meters, accuracy would be significantly degraded even though the distance remained within effective range for all guns. Chen Sigen decided to execute rapid fire—projecting a massive volume of shells onto the target position in a single burst, so that Mao Chenglu and his central army would be completely engulfed before they could react.
While cannons thundered around Qimu Island, Chen Guangfu's five hundred men had quietly reached a forest by Longkou Bay. This starting position had been carefully chosen: descending onto the ice from this small wood, the journey to Qimu Island was longer than from other locations, but the ice here was solid and suitable for horses.
Mounted movement was swift, so an extra half-li or even a full li mattered little. If they encountered ice crevasses during the advance, that would cause real trouble.
Five hundred riders held their breath as one, awaiting his command.
Gunfire boomed constantly from the sandbar. Chen Guangfu rejoiced inwardly: The fighting's started over there! He immediately shouted:
"Brothers—forward!"
With a crack of his whip, he was the first to burst from the forest.
Five hundred riders surged from the trees almost as one, pouring onto the ice of Longkou Bay.
Hooves thundered. Snow-smoke billowed in their wake. Five hundred cavalry shot toward the exposed underbelly of Qimu Island like arrows loosed from the string.
The shrill alarm sounded on Qimu Island almost simultaneously. Zhu Mingxia, who had been sitting on the ground with his soldiers, sprang to his feet. He glanced at the signal station. The flags indicated the enemy was approaching from the west of Qimu Island.
"Beat the drums!" he shouted.
Rapid combat-readiness drums rolled out. Soldiers who had been sitting cross-legged on the ground, resting, leapt up as one. They fastened helmet straps, checked weapons, and slapped dust from their uniforms even as they moved.
Four companies snapped instantly into combat readiness. Zhu Mingxia's voice rang out deep and commanding: "Light Infantry Company, Battle Line Third and Fourth Companies—follow me in company columns! Grenadier Company remains in reserve! All companies—run!"
Three companies surged toward the shore. This stretch was entirely sandy beach, ideal for enemy landing, so barbed wire and abatis had been laid across the frozen surface in advance. The three companies led by Zhu Mingxia raced to the water's edge.
"Deploy into double-line column by company!" He was first to reach the shore. Cavalry were galloping across the ice toward them. So this is the enemy's hidden card, Zhu Mingxia thought.
"Sight three hundred meters! Prepare to fire!" He raised one hand, watching the cavalry's movement. "Fire!"
(End of Chapter)