The Mandate of Heaven (53 page)

Not content with shedding more rain, the clouds darkened, threatening a storm. Still Hsiung ordered the fleet forward, led by sailors with experience of this coastline. An hour later, their progress slowed by a slack breeze, warning cries arose from lookouts stationed on mastheads.

‘Small boats ahead! A line of them!’

Hsiung, who stood with General P’ao – the former sergeant having gained yet another promotion – waited expectantly.

‘They’ve seen us!’ shouted the lookout. ‘Some are heading east, others west. Some flee back to the Salt Pans.’

Hsiung turned to his old friend. ‘What does this mean?’

‘That they’re looking out for us,’ replied P’ao. ‘Perhaps we’re expected.’

‘Perhaps,’ muttered Hsiung. ‘It is a chance we must take.’

Soon low-lying islands of mud, rock and water-loving plants rose on the horizon. None were bigger than a large field, most much smaller. Between them flowed channels lined by reeds: a perfect place to conceal small boats for an ambush. The rain fell ceaselessly so that the muddy brown water shimmered and danced.

‘Go cautiously now!’ urged the captain to the tillerman. There was no other way to advance unless one risked being stuck on a mud-bank. But the main channels were deep and wide enough for their largest vessels to sail two abreast. Still they saw no trace of the enemy, just occasional flocks of birds startled by the creak of bamboo masts and sails.

‘The Salt Pans!’ cried General P’ao from the prow. ‘Noble Count, I see them!’

Hsiung also peered through the rain, his heartbeat quickening. The same dismal place of his nightmares, only smaller than he remembered. Then it had seemed to cover the earth. Hundreds of pagoda-shaped wooden derricks rose above the level of the vast marsh, each denoting a borehole. A thousand angry demon eyes from the gas flames. Over there the squat lines of the ramparts and menacing ugliness of the fortress.

Where was the opposition he expected? The fleet of small boats he knew were stationed here had not issued out to delay them, though they must have received warning of the attack.

‘Make straight for the piers and jetties!’ he commanded. ‘While they’re still napping!’

Even here their luck held. Only a few hundred of the enemy gathered to contest their landing. Flights of arrows and small thunderclap bombs hurled by whirling tiger catapults from the warships’ decks soon sent them scurrying back towards dry land and the safety of their fortress. Steam billowed up from hundreds of boiling pans, obscuring the scores of guards who ran to and fro on the fortress battlements.

Hsiung understood why it was so easy. The spymasters’ reports were entirely correct! The Mongols had diminished their garrison to a size where it was only capable of oppressing the slaves and indentured labourers working the Salt Pans. Yet this realisation brought no exultation. Hsiung could not forget his first glimpse of this hell when he arrived as a boy.

Still the rain fell, turning the ground to mud. He stepped onto the wooden pier, a hand on his sword hilt. All around him armoured men climbed ashore, streaming down the wooden planks of the jetties to take up position on the foreshore. It was a manoeuvre they had practised many times on the wharfs of Port Yulan. Hsiung turned to General P’ao, whose expression was thoughtful. Perhaps he, too, experienced unpleasant recollections of this dismal place.

‘I want it done quickly,’ said Hsiung.

General P’ao bowed. ‘As you say, Noble Count! The sooner we’re home in Lingling the better.’

He strode off to form the troops into a phalanx, ready to attack.

A no man’s land of about three
li
climbed from the jetties and piers to the fortress, a wide strip of dry ground rising from the marsh. To the left of this strip lay the channels and walkways and tiny islands of the salt workings, a maze of boiling pans and derricks: no place for heavily armoured men unless they wished to sink up to their waists in mud. To the right of the strip rose earthen ramparts, leading all the way to the fortress.

Hsiung realised he must enter trapped ground: marsh on one side, high walls on the other. General P’ao evidently shared his misgivings, for he whispered: ‘What do you think?’

Hsiung glowered up at the battlements of the fortress: the defences had collapsed in places and there wasn’t even a proper ditch. Few troops seemed to be manning the place.

‘We have come too far to hesitate,’ he said. ‘Order the attack.’

Flags waved. Drums echoed. The three thousand strong columns of rebels advanced across the sticky ground, weaving around thatched huts. Behind them came special teams with a hundred siege ladders. Hsiung’s disquiet increased: the terrain reminded him of somewhere else, though he could not think where.

Then they were through the huts and were only two
li
from the fortress gates. At once the echo of huge kettledrums rose from behind the battlements. Hsiung raised his hand and flags fluttered to order a halt.

As though in response to his signal the wide doors of the fortress opened and a column, a dozen men wide, poured out. Hsiung peered at them through the rain: banners, signal drums, above all they wore the armour of trained guardsmen. The hole in his stomach became a pit. Doorways high up in the fortress walls that led onto the earthen ramparts of the Salt Pans had also opened, emitting a stream of archers. Their intention was obvious, to pour arrows down on the dense ranks of Yueh Fei rebels.

Hsiung reacted instantly.

‘Captain Jin! Clear those ramparts, whatever the cost. General P’ao, forward at double speed! We must drive them back into the fortress before they deploy their full force!’

A terrible urge to charge forward at the head of his men had to be mastered. Liu Shui had cautioned him against risking his life – if he perished in battle their army would become leaderless and thousands would die unnecessarily. So he hung back as the rebels surged forward, clashing with the Mongol forces. Arrows and crossbow bolts arched down from the fortress, blending with the rain.

‘Your Highness!’ shouted his standard bearer. ‘Look to our left!’

Hsiung turned, just as an arrow rushed at his helmet, bouncing off the wet metal. He did not need the help of his standard bearer’s pointing finger. Hundreds of lightly armoured troops had appeared from hidden places amidst the derricks and boiling pans, some attacking from the raised earthen walkways, others in small boats. Their aim was obvious: to harry the rebel flank. Hsiung realised they now faced enemies on three sides: and already the casualties from the flights of arrows were severe. As he watched, more and more of the heavily armoured Uighur guardsmen jogged out of the fortress gates.

‘It is a trap!’ he shouted, turning to his standard bearer. But the man was on his knees, an arrow in his chest, eyes bulging as he struggled to keep the flag showing. Others seized it as he fell face forward into the mud. ‘Drummers!’ bellowed Hsiung. ‘Order a retreat to the ships! No, halt! Do not sound a retreat, damn you!’

He had realised the extent of the Mongols’ cunning. An examination of his fleet revealed scores of small enemy boats packed with marines, appearing from hiding places in the maze of islands out on the lake. It would take all his navy’s strength to repulse them, let alone sail in and out of the jetties for an orderly embarkation of the rebel troops. Meanwhile the assault against them could only intensify.

A sudden stillness entered Hsiung’s soul: the din and roar of battle seemed to die away. He noticed Jebe Khoja watching from the battlements of the fortress and, quite dispassionately, Hsiung comprehended the Mongol general’s revenge. The sweet, delicious irony of it all. For Jebe Khoja had merely tempted and trapped him, as he had tricked the Mongol to advance too far into Fourth Hell Gorge eight years before. In that moment of stillness he saw more enemy troops gathering, an endless supply, and realised the Red Turbans were not only trapped but outnumbered. Hsiung felt no grief at this realisation. Or despair. He possessed a single ambition: not to fall with dishonour. Ignoring all Liu Shui’s admonishments, Hsiung swept out his long sword.

‘Beat the drums for a new attack!’ he ordered.

Followed by his bodyguard, Hsiung strode to the front rank of the rebel Guards where his men were wavering.

‘Yueh Fei!’ he bellowed. ‘For justice and the Buddha Maitreya!’

With this rallying cry the rebels renewed their assault, hacking and trampling scores of Mongol infantry. Always there were more, always another hundred to replace those killed. And though Captain Jin had succeeded in clearing the ramparts to their right of archers, still arrows and crossbow bolts fell from the fortress walls in front of the rebel army.

Hsiung cut a way through to General P’ao who had come within a
li
of the gates and could advance no nearer.

‘Hsiung!’ he called. ‘We must retreat in an orderly way while we still can!’ But the Noble Count raged with pride at the three Mongol warriors he had dispatched. ‘We must retreat to the jetties!’ repeated P’ao. ‘With luck we might hold them off until our ships are ready to start embarking the men. That way at least some of us might escape.’

Hsiung’s joy died away. Jebe Khoja remained visible on the battlements, tantalisingly near.

‘Damn you!’ he said, bitterly. ‘Order it then!’

Soon the rebel signal drums were beating and they withdrew, somehow still fighting and in good order, back towards the piers. Halfway there, Hsiung squinted up at the sky in surprise. Something had changed. He laughed. For the first time in days the rain had stopped. In that new silence another noise arose, one that forced all those on the battlefield, rebel or warrior loyal to the Great Khan, to look round in alarm.

Perhaps the name of Yueh Fei inspired the new noise. Perhaps long-simmering outrage reached boiling point at the sight of the rebels – who were, after all, the salt workers’ one hope of liberation. Perhaps it was the desperation of men driven to any fate rather than famine and perpetual abuse.

It began in a small way. A group of Uighur footsoldiers, beaten back from the rebel flanks, chanced upon a work gang hiding near a derrick. Frustrated by their retreat from the battle, the Uighurs found easier meat, cutting down a dozen slaves and indentured labourers. The surprise came when the barefoot, dirt-encrusted wretches fought back. After the Uighurs had been overwhelmed by sheer numbers, the foreman, terrified of reprisals, seized a metal hammer and began to beat the side of the bubbling iron pan. Six feet across, it resounded like an enormous gong.
Deng
…
deng
…
deng
. The sound drifted across marsh and borehole and bamboo derrick.
Deng
…
deng
…
deng
. Now another work gang joined in, catching the rhythm. Like a hot wind the clanging spread from work gang to work gang, stirring memories of failed revolts. Only this time they were not alone against the Mongol troops.

That was the moment when the entire battlefield drew breath to listen. Even Jebe Khoja, surveying his inevitable triumph from the fortress’s battlements felt a stab of doubt.

First singly, then in small groups, semi-naked men appeared on the spider’s web of raised earth walkways linking the hundreds of brine holes. They carried improvised weapons: hammers and spades, lengths of chain and long staves of bamboo. Others wielded hatchets or knives. Pitiful weapons compared to those possessed by the thousands of heavily-armoured Mongol troops and their allies. But in ankle-deep mud the swift, barefoot man often has the advantage, and few were more accustomed to keeping their balance in slime than the salt workers.

Deng
…
deng
…
deng
. Thirty thousand men toiled in the Salt Pans. When half that number roused themselves and streamed to join the battle, forming long, bellowing mobs on the walkways, it became clear that the Mongols – who had outnumbered Hsiung’s rebels two-to-one – were outmatched in their turn.

The ancient military sages all agreed: men willing to die always defeat those fearful of death. The slaves and labourers of the Salt Pans were already under a death sentence. Those who knew hopeless awakenings in the drab light of dawn, day after day, season through season, each year futureless and featureless because destined to be exactly like the one that gave it birth – only those knew what little worth life can possess. How small a purchase on this illusory earth. Here was a possibility of revenge.