Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Cup of Tea

About four miles north of Mafang Village, a road winds through a willow grove.

The area is now a scene of devastation. The ground is littered with the bodies of the fallen and the wailing of the wounded, marking the aftermath of a fierce ambush.

Zhang Guangda, a platoon commander of the left sentinel under the cavalry battalion of Zhang Yan, a deputy general of the Ming Dynasty’s Xuanfu Garrison, stood beside the corpse of a Qing soldier. He addressed his guards: "Tend to the wounded immediately and tally our losses. Everyone, rest for a moment; we move out in a quarter-hour."

Before long, a guard returned to report: "Our First Team of the Second Platoon was ambushed in the willow grove. We killed eight of the enemy slaves and captured two, though they are too severely wounded to survive. We have recovered thirteen warhorses, not counting the weapons and armor, and seized over two hundred and seventy taels of silver."

"Understood. What are our casualties?" Zhang Guangda asked.

"Liu Quan, the team leader, and two guards were wounded. In the first squad, one man is wounded, squad leader Du Chun. In the second squad, four were killed in action and four wounded; squad leader Bai Shanzi is injured, and two soldiers are severely wounded. In the third squad, four were killed and four wounded, with one soldier severely injured. In total, we lost eight men, with eleven wounded, three of whom are in critical condition," the guard replied.

"Damn it! Only ten Tartars, and they nearly wiped out my entire team."

Zhang Guangda cursed under his breath, then turned to the guard: "Take the long way around. Go quickly to the main road southeast of Mafang and report to the young commander: our unit encountered ten mounted Tartar scouts while in transit; we killed eight and captured two."

"Yes, sir!" The guard acknowledged the order, turned, and sprinted out of the grove. Soon, the sound of urgent hoofbeats faded into the distance.

"Cut off their heads and bury the bodies where they lie," Zhang Guangda said, glancing at the two Qing corpses before turning toward the road outside the grove.

The autumn wind was bleak, rustling the willow leaves. The branches swayed in the wind, creating a continuous, mournful sound. Aside from that, there was absolute silence. Even though the road was lined with ranks of armored cavalrymen, they stood as still and quiet as novices, not a single sound escaping them.

Along the roadside, the bodies of the eight fallen soldiers were laid out in a row. Their cloaks had been removed and draped over them. Zhang Guangda stepped forward, signaled, and the soldiers lifted the red cloaks to let him see, then covered the fallen men once more as he walked away.

Each time he looked at a fallen soldier, Zhang Guangda sighed. These were the fine sons of their parents, the brave cavalrymen of the Xuanfu Garrison.

"Damned Tartars," he muttered, reaching the side of Team Leader Liu Quan.

Liu Quan lay on a makeshift stretcher. The arrow had been removed from his right leg, and blood was already seeping through the bandages. Squad leaders Du Chun and Bai Shanzi lay nearby.

Sun Dashan, the third squad leader, was guarding Liu Quan. Seeing Zhang Guangda approach, he stood up, his voice choking with emotion: "Commander Zhang, Team Leader Liu..."

Zhang Guangda waved his hand to silence him. He crouched down to look at Liu Quan, who had tears in his eyes: "Commander Zhang, the brothers in my team..."

Again, Zhang Guangda waved him off. He spoke gently: "You took down ten Tartar scouts—a great merit! The commander will surely reward you."

"Rest well and recover. All of you are heroes!" Zhang Guangda added in consolation.

Standing up, he turned to Sun Dashan: "The entire first team will remain here. You are in temporary command. Take care of the wounded and ensure the bodies of our fallen brothers are handled with respect."

"And keep a close watch on those two Tartars," Zhang Guangda added as he turned to leave. "Don't let them die."

He continued forward, his heart aching like a knife as he saw his wounded soldiers suppressing their pain. A chilly autumn wind blew, making him shudder. Tears welled in his eyes; these young men, so full of vigor just moments ago, were now lying here. Though their wounds varied, they all bore them in silence, trying their utmost not to cry out.

Zhang Guangda reached the end of the line, where the most severely wounded lay. One soldier had an arrow embedded in his shoulder and a throwing axe lodged in his face. He lay motionless, perhaps beyond pain, his eyes wide open, filled with lingering resentment and yearning.

Zhang Guangda knelt beside him, his voice trembling: "What is your name?"

The soldier’s lips moved slightly, but no sound came out.

Third squad leader Sun Dashan stepped forward: "Commander Zhang, his name is Cheng Long. He leaves behind an elderly mother and a younger brother and sister."

Zhang Guangda nodded silently and whispered to Cheng Long: "Brother, go in peace. Do not worry about your family; we will care for your mother and siblings..."

Cheng Long’s eyes, filled with longing, remained fixed on Zhang Guangda, a glimmer of happiness and contentment flashing within them. Before Zhang Guangda could finish his words, he passed away, a faint smile lingering on his lips as he departed in peace.

***

On the main road about two miles west of Mafang Village, over four hundred men were scattered under the willow trees. They were fully armored, each leading a warhorse, seemingly waiting for something.

About two miles northeast of the main road lay Mafang Village. A path branched off the main road, leading directly into the village.

Within the village, thick smoke billowed from several locations. At the western entrance, where the village path met the road, large logs were piled as a barricade, and a dozen men could be seen patrolling. To the north, a collapsed building left only broken walls, where a roaring bonfire burned; several armored Qing soldiers sat around it, eating and drinking.

About a hundred meters southwest of the village, a crude stable enclosed by wooden fences held nearly a thousand ragged, destitute villagers. They huddled together against the deep autumn wind. Most were elderly men, children, or able-bodied men; there were very few women, who were likely held elsewhere.

Around the stable stood several wooden posts to which nearly a hundred horses and mules were tied. Groups of men patrolled the area; they were not armored and appeared to be the Qing soldiers' personal bondsmen. Carrying swords or spears, they occasionally laughed and shouted at the villagers within the fence.

Mafang Village had no walls or defensive fortifications, but about two hundred meters west of the village, a shallow trench, roughly five paces wide, wound southward toward the main road. The banks were covered in weeds and shrubs. The only way to enter the village was a narrow road, barely wide enough for two carts.

About four hundred meters further west of the trench lay a depression, also overgrown with weeds and shrubs, seemingly land that had long been left fallow.

The chilly wind stirred the weeds and shrubs, creating waves of grass. Several figures moved through the waist-high foliage, occasionally peering toward Mafang Village and gesturing to one another.

They were Zhang Cheng and his men, who had just slaughtered the ten Qing scouts on the main road. Having left the main cavalry force to rest and await orders on the road, he had brought only his two platoon commanders and a few guards to approach this depression, observing the Qing defensive layout at close range to finalize their plan of attack.