MLMD -Chapter 268 The Battle Lines Clash Fiercely

“Boom—”

A cloud of bluish smoke billowed upward as more than thirty six-pound iron shot broke free of gravity and soared into the air. They traced graceful arcs before plunging downward, carrying tremendous kinetic energy, and smashed heavily into the great shield raised by an infantryman who was charging forward with all his might.

The heavy shield, fashioned from hard birchwood, was like paper before shot as large as a fist. It shattered instantly into splinters. The cannonball then struck the armored infantryman behind it without mercy, tearing his body clean in two. Still carrying its momentum, the ball bounced along the ground, striking three more men running behind him before finally losing its energy and coming to rest. Behind it lay a trail of blood and corpses.

Baotai was a man of the Plain Blue Banner and deeply trusted by Abatai. In this attack on the Yingzhou Army, Abatai once again had him lead the infantry in a frontal assault. At this moment, Baotai was waving the long saber in his hand, directing the armored foot soldiers and mounted infantry to press forward.

“Move faster, all of you! The Ming dogs fire their cannons quickly—stay here and you’re dead! Anyone who doesn’t want to die, run! Once we reach their lines, we’ve won!”

Now in his thirties, Baotai was a veteran of countless battles, having fought the Ming Army dozens of times in both major and minor engagements. He knew the weaknesses of firearms all too well. From his experience, as long as they could close with the Ming formations, victory was assured. Besides, this time Abatai had also dispatched two Jalan Zhangjing, each leading over a thousand cavalrymen, to launch feigned attacks against the Ming flanks. Though called feints, if the Ming flanks proved weak, those feints would immediately turn into full assaults. For years, the Manchus had been nearly invincible using such tactics. They even deliberately left an escape route—many Ming armies, caught in three-sided attacks, collapsed before long, fled in panic, and were then pursued and annihilated one by one by Qing cavalry.

“Load!”

“Fire!”

“Boom, boom, boom—”

Facing the steadily advancing Qing troops, Zhao Yongxin still held his long saber aloft, issuing commands in a calm, methodical manner. Beside him, gunners cranked the elevating screws to adjust their barrels, scrubbed their gun chambers, and loaded powder and shot. The artillery position bustled with activity.

“Sir, the Tatars are pressing in from both flanks!” a cavalryman shouted, pointing toward clouds of dust rising in the distance.

“Hmph—good. I was afraid they wouldn’t come,” Wu Chengfeng sneered. Then he shouted loudly, “Brothers, the Tatars are here! Follow the old rules—advance in a line and scatter the goods!”

“Yes!”

At once, the cavalry on both wings spurred forward. Fifteen hundred riders on each side formed into a long, straight line and galloped to a point three hundred paces ahead before halting. At the officers’ command, the cavalrymen took out sacks from their saddles, wheeled their horses, and rode back while scattering their contents. In moments, layer upon layer of cold-glinting caltrops carpeted the ground behind them.

By the time the Qing cavalry swept around to the side of the Ming square, Wu Chengfeng and his men had already finished spreading the caltrops. Seeing the ground densely covered with iron spikes, the two Jalan Zhangjing, Charchi and Chang’adai, cursed aloud in fury. Both were seasoned veterans, yet they had never seen such a shameless army—scattering caltrops all over the battlefield at will. Didn’t they know it was easy to scatter them but hard to clear them up? Couldn’t they just fight properly? How were they supposed to explain this when they got back?

Thus, the two once-confident Jalan Zhangjing found themselves helpless before the field of caltrops. In the end, Chang’adai hardened his heart and led his cavalry around behind the Yingzhou Army’s formation, intending to “stab them in the rear.” But today, Chang’adai was destined for disappointment. The moment his cavalry bypassed the caltrops, gunfire erupted. Two musket formations that had long been waiting for them coldly raised their weapons and pulled the triggers.

Amid rows of gunshots, countless bullets whistled sharply through the air. The soft lead balls, driven by tremendous force, slammed into their targets. The Qing cavalry were mostly light horsemen, wearing only padded armor—against high-velocity lead bullets, disaster followed.

Dozens of cavalrymen charging at the front had just cleared the caltrops and were rushing toward the rear of the Yingzhou formation when a rapid crackling sound, like beans frying in a pan, rang out. One rider at the very front had a bloody hole bloom in his chest. He was hurled from his horse by the impact and smashed heavily into the ground, his body twisted into an unnatural shape—clearly beyond saving. Around him, the riders who had followed him in were likewise shot down one after another. In an instant, the battlefield was filled with the mournful screams of horses and the agonized cries of wounded Qing soldiers.

“Keep going! Charge through! Kill those lowly Nikan!” Chang’adai roared, waving his saber, flames blazing in his eyes. In his mind, the distance was only a little over two hundred paces—horses could cover that in mere dozens of breaths.

But reality disappointed him cruelly. The Ming muskets seemed inexhaustible. Volley after volley thundered out, and ranks of horses collapsed amid blood as they screamed in agony. With both flanks of the Ming formation covered in caltrops, the Qing cavalry naturally had to circle around and attack from the rear. But these repeated detours reduced their speed again and again, turning them into perfect targets for the musketeers.

In less than ten minutes, under the fire of more than a thousand musketeers, four to five hundred Qing soldiers lay dead in pools of blood. Such horrific losses finally bred fear among the Qing troops. Many slowed their advance, and quite a few subconsciously turned their horses aside, trying to flee the killing ground.

“Get up there! What are you standing around for? Once you charge in, you can kill those lowly Nikan!” Chang’adai shouted hysterically.

By now, he had fallen into a frenzy. There was only one thought in his mind—to reach the Ming lines and slaughter those Ming soldiers who hid behind their guns.

“Enough! Stop charging! Withdraw—now!”

A voice rang out beside him. Chang’adai turned and saw that Charchi had ridden up. Seeing him was like grasping a lifeline. Chang’adai seized Charchi’s arm and said urgently, “Charchi, bring your men and charge with me! If the two of us strike together, we can break into their formation. Then we’ve won! I’ll kill every last one of those cowardly Ming dogs!”

“Kill my ass!” Charchi snapped mercilessly, yanking him back and pointing behind them. A massive cloud of dust was rising into the sky.

“Look!” Charchi shouted. “The Ming reinforcements are here! If we don’t leave now, none of us will get out!”

Chang’adai’s face went deathly pale. From the dust clouds and the heart-pounding thunder of hooves already reaching their ears, the approaching cavalry numbered at least six or seven thousand. They were now under attack from two sides and badly outnumbered. Staying any longer meant only one end—death.

“Fine… we retreat!” Chang’adai forced the words through clenched teeth, suppressing the rage boiling inside as he ordered his troops to withdraw.

But retreat was no easy matter. Wu Chengfeng, who had been watching from the side after scattering the caltrops, would never miss such a chance to beat a drowning dog. Seeing the Qing turn to flee, he immediately waved his saber and led his cavalry in pursuit. In an instant, ranks of black-armored horsemen surged forward, sabers flashing as they chased after the retreating Qing troops.

Blocked by the Yingzhou Army’s square, Abatai was unaware of the bitter struggle trapping Chang’adai and Charchi. At this moment, he was holding a single-tube telescope, observing Baotai’s infantry assault on the front of the Yingzhou formation. As he watched, his brow furrowed repeatedly. Earlier, when Baotai’s troops had closed to within a little over two hundred paces, the Ming artillery had switched to canister shot. When dozens of guns fired together, hundreds of thumb-sized iron pellets rained down like flowers scattered from heaven, battering the Qing troops mercilessly.

Seeing Qing soldiers writhing and wailing on the ground, Abatai’s face twisted as he muttered, “Damn it.”

After a while, the cannon fire suddenly stopped. The battlefield fell into an eerie silence. Startled, Abatai trained his telescope on the Ming artillery positions and immediately saw that the Ming guns had ceased firing. Many Ming soldiers were packing up and dragging the cannons backward.

At the sight, Abatai was overjoyed. He spun around and barked at a Gosha beside him, “Go tell Baotai at once—the Ming dogs are scared! Tell him to speed up the advance. Have the archers rush to the front and kill every last Ming dog with their bows!”

“Yes!”

In fact, even without Abatai’s orders, the Qing troops at the front adjusted their formation once the cannon fire ceased. Archers who had been sheltering in the rear moved forward, forming dense ranks. Behind them stood layers upon layers of spear forests, and within each unit fluttered countless blue-and-red banner flags.

“Advance!”

As the Qing quickened their pace, the two sides drew ever closer. Amid the rhythmic tramp of marching feet, the enemy’s armor and weapons, the fluttering red plumes and cloaks, and even the twisted, ferocious expressions on the soldiers’ faces became clearly visible.

Feng Xiaoming, now promoted to a defensive commander, stared at the advancing Qing and shouted, “Check your ammunition!”

Though their muskets were already loaded with powder and lead, under the officers’ repeated commands the dense ranks of Yingzhou musketeers opened their powder pans once more and carefully checked their loads.

“Raise your guns!”

“Clatter—”

A black mass of muskets rose, dark muzzles pointing straight ahead.

“First rank ready—prepare to fire!”

The musketeers calmly set their sights on the enemy.

With the artillery threat gone, the Qing advanced in tight formation: three to four hundred shield bearers in front, nearly two thousand archers in four ranks behind them—elite bowmen of the Bordered Blue Banner. Behind the archers stood two thousand heavily armored spearmen. These men wore full armor and carried long spears, arranged in dense layers of one or two hundred per rank, bristling with spears and halberds. Their killing intent was palpable. For decades, they had used such formations to smash Ming armies again and again.

Feng Xiaoming watched the Qing step closer, a mix of tension and excitement in his eyes. With the power of the Minié-type musket, at over two hundred paces it could already penetrate most Qing armor, but heavy shields were another matter. That was why he had decided to hold fire until the enemy closed to one hundred paces.

Though the guns were silent, an uncanny stillness lay over the battlefield, making hearts on both sides pound even harder. Ming commander Lu Xiangsheng and Qing commander Ajige both felt the strain.

For Lu Xiangsheng, if Yue Yang could withstand this assault and inflict heavy losses, he would have to reassess him. A man with money, grain, a strong army, and the ability to fight the Qing on equal terms in open battle was of unquestionable value to the Ming.

For Ajige, if Abatai could crush the Yingzhou Army, it would be cause for celebration, with merit to be shared by him as commander. But if Abatai failed, it would prove his incompetence—something Ajige could “truthfully” report to Hong Taiji afterward as a lesson.

The Qing advanced to just over one hundred paces, yet the Ming still did not fire. This left the Qing both puzzled and pleased. Puzzled, because in the past Ming muskets were of poor quality, prone to bursting, and their gunners poorly trained and easily panicked—often firing wildly at one or two hundred paces, shots that couldn’t even reach a Qing soldier’s feet. Who would have thought these men could hold their nerve? Pleased, because if the Ming didn’t fire, then once they closed to seventy paces, the Qing archers would unleash their powerful bows and slaughter them all.

Though the Qing high command deliberately concealed information, and most lower-ranking officers and soldiers knew nothing of the Yingzhou Army’s past exploits, a few well-informed men knew there was such a formidable Ming force. Still, what of it? No Ming army had ever withstood the mighty bows and crossbows of Great Qing warriors in frontal battle.

Soon, the Qing entered the one-hundred-pace mark. Standing at the center of the formation, Yue Yang softly uttered, “The slaughter begins.”

The instant his words fell, Feng Xiaoming at the front raised his saber high. The shrill whistle in his mouth pierced the air, its sharp, mournful sound echoing across the battlefield.

At the front, a battalion commander, ten company commanders, and squad and file leaders all shouted in unison, “Fire!”

A deafening roar of musketry erupted. The first rank fired together, and along a five- to six-hundred-meter front, a long, dense band of white smoke billowed up.

The Qing shield bearers in front felt as if their shields had been smashed by sledgehammers. Agonizing pain shot through their palms. Many shields were struck by multiple bullets and shattered outright. Even those that held left their bearers reeling, unable to grip them, and men toppled backward under the tremendous impact.

As the shield bearers fell or lost their shields, the Qing formation was laid bare.

The first rank of musketeers withdrew swiftly as the second rank surged forward. With new commands, another thunderous volley rang out.

Stripped of shield protection, the densely packed Qing archers were enveloped in sprays of blood as their padded armor was torn apart. In an instant, great swathes fell. Many, struck by bullets, seemed momentarily stunned—then the pain hit, and they collapsed screaming.

Like a gale sweeping through, chaos erupted among the Qing archers. Some who were untouched stared in disbelief, others were struck dumb with terror, while a few hastily drew their bows and loosed arrows in a desperate attempt to suppress the Ming. But at such distance, the arrows had already lost their force by the time they reached the Ming lines, falling harmlessly before the musketeers and sticking weakly into the ground.

The Qing’s misery stirred no mercy among the Ming musketeers. As the second rank finished firing, the third rank stepped forward with grim resolve.

“Fire!”

“Bang, bang, bang—”

Five hundred muskets roared as one. Amid the thunder, ranks of archers fell like hunted prey. After three consecutive volleys, the Qing archers at the front were virtually wiped out. The few survivors were so terrified they had lost all will to advance. Even the dullest among them knew that charging forward in padded armor would only make them targets.

As chaos engulfed the Qing front, a mournful horn sounded from the rear. The troops understood—it was the order for the archers to withdraw. Already shaken to the core, the archers turned and fled almost the instant the horn sounded, some even throwing their bows to the ground.

“Woo—woo—woo—”

Another horn call rang out. As the archers pulled back, they revealed the spearmen behind them. These heavily armored troops raised their long spears at a slant, dense forests of spearheads and halberds gleaming under the sun. Wave after wave of armored Qing spearmen roared as they charged toward the Ming lines, spears leveled.