Chapter 28: The Mighty Cao Wenzhao

A scout grinned as he nocked an arrow and let it fly; the shaft whistled past Cao Wenzhao, landing in the grass by the riverbank, scarcely a pace from where he stood. Startled, Cao Wenzhao rolled swiftly aside, his ungainly scramble provoking peals of laughter from the Jin scouts across the water. He got to his feet but did not retreat. Several more scouts stepped forward, bows drawn, sending arrows that struck his iron-scale armor with a metallic thud before tumbling harmlessly to the ground. Cao Wenzhao stood firm, unmoved, waiting as the enemy approached the river's edge. Then, with practiced hands, he drew several arrows, stabbing them into the sandy earth beside him. Grasping his iron bow, he loosed six arrows in rapid succession, each one finding its mark. Of the seven scouts on the opposite bank, six fell where they stood.

He wielded a formidable bow, drawn with the strength of three stone, easily capable of sending arrows a hundred and fifty paces. The iron-scale armor he wore had been a gift from Yang Guanggao to his guide; the enemy’s arrows could scarcely tickle him, while his own shafts, striking opponents clad only in leather, proved lethal.

The sole surviving Jin scout stared in terror and fled the riverbank, not stopping until he had run a hundred paces. From that distance, he wavered, torn between rescuing his fallen comrades and his fear of Cao Wenzhao’s deadly aim. Cao Wenzhao muttered under his breath, “Foolish pig, come crawling over if you dare.” With a wave of his hand, he summoned the cavalry captain. “I’ll keep watch on that Jin dog. Go to the river guards and get a boat. Cross over and take their heads, and lead the horses back.”

The captain wheeled his horse and rode with his men to the river defenses, quickly finding a medium-sized boat. Dismounting, they boarded and rowed across. By now, the Jin scout had grown wise, crawling on his belly toward his fallen comrades. The boat reached the opposite shore, and the captain led his men, muskets in hand, in pursuit. The scout had crawled only a few dozen steps before he realized his peril and sprang up, fleeing for his life. Cao Wenzhao’s arrow hissed past him, sending him into a greater panic. As the captain’s party reached the scattered bodies, the scout reached his horse, hesitating between mounting to escape or drawing his bow. At that moment, a musket cracked—he fell instantly.

With a triumphant grin, the captain slung his musket. “Li Zheng, Wang Bing, you two take his head. The rest, hurry and finish up here.” Soon, seven heads and several horses—those that had not bolted far—were in hand. The captain swiftly gathered his men, retreated to the boat, and rowed back across.

Yang Guanggao gazed at the heads at his feet, listening as the captain recounted the events. He raised his thumb to Cao Wenzhao in praise, an unfamiliar gesture. Zhou Yuji, standing nearby, explained that it was the emperor’s way of commending good work. Yang Guanggao said, “Commander Cao, your archery is extraordinary. You are both brave and resourceful. Would you consider serving in the Capital Garrison?”

Cao Wenzhao, newly arrived in Guangning and holding only a minor command, was overjoyed at the prospect of joining the Capital Garrison. Yang Guanggao promised to speak to Wang Huazhen when they returned, and in the meantime, promoted Cao Wenzhao to provisional commander of a thousand, placing him in charge of the scouts and assigning him a cavalry wing in battle. Once back in the capital, his merits would be rewarded accordingly.

On the seventh day of the eighth month, the Capital Garrison began marching upriver. Cao Wenzhao noted that the upper reaches narrowed and the water grew shallow, making it vulnerable to Jin incursions. He advised sending scouts farther afield. Yang Guanggao approved, dispatching scouts forty li ahead and thirty li behind.

On the ninth day, they reached Liuhe Garrison. After establishing camp, Cao Wenzhao reported: an enemy fleet had been sighted thirty li upstream, heading their way—likely targeting the Capital Garrison. Moments later came another report: the enemy had begun disembarking twenty li upstream. Judging by their standards, they belonged to the Bordered White Banner—about a thousand armored troops, two thousand unarmored, and two thousand Han auxiliaries.

Yang Guanggao glanced at the sky—it was nearly midday. The Capital Garrison had already marched eighteen li that morning; advancing another twenty li to strike at the crossing was unrealistic. The enemy numbered about ten niru, while the garrison boasted over five thousand men, a clear numerical advantage. Yet his troops had never seen battle; as the emperor advised, they must hold fast in defense before taking the offensive.

Orders were given: cooks to prepare meals, logistical troops to dig fortifications, and combat troops to assist in relays. Within an hour, the enemy was five li from camp. By that time, the entire garrison had dined, and their defenses stood ready.

Infantry and artillery were arranged at the front, with infantry in nine ranks of twelve files each, sixty paces between each formation. Artillery units were interspersed among the infantry, with cooks and logistical soldiers in the center of each square, tasked with collecting enemy heads in battle. Cavalry was stationed on the flanks.

The Bordered White Banner was led by Dudu, Nurhaci’s eldest grandson. After Nurhaci executed his own son, Chuying, for incorrigibility, Dudu inherited command of the banner, leading fifteen niru from his post in Haizhou. When word came that a large Ming force had gathered across the river, bright in polished armor with drums and banners, Dudu saw from their insignia that they were from the Capital Garrison. The garrison’s high pay, chaotic organization, and notorious lack of fighting spirit were well known, even among the Jin. Dudu’s hunter’s instinct was roused—who wouldn’t want to squeeze such a soft target? He ordered his men to watch the Ming closely, hoping Wang Huazhen would send troops across to attempt another sneak attack; if so, as before, their equipment would soon add to his own stockpile.

Yet the Ming only marched along the river, making no move to cross—more like an outing than a campaign, though it was autumn, not spring. Dudu considered, then made up his mind: if the Ming would not come to him, he would go to them. With both forces near the river, he could cross, strike swiftly, loot, and retreat before the Ming could respond. As for victory, he didn’t trouble himself with such concerns. The past two years of war had taught the Jin commanders a simple truth: excluding the troops from Sichuan and Zhejiang, the rest of the Ming army was little more than a paper tiger—especially the Capital Garrison, whose infamy was legendary.

Seeing the Ming arrayed in proper formation, Dudu was mildly surprised; they did not flee at the sight of Jin troops—showing some backbone. All the better, he thought—greater the harvest to come. He gave the order: the Jin advanced to within a li of the Ming position before dismounting. The armored troops donned their gear, readied weapons, and marched forward.

The Ming fortifications were simple—two trenches, each half a man deep, separated by a little over two paces. Earth was piled on the enemy-facing side, bristling with muskets and cannon. Every twenty paces within the trench, a man watched the banners at the rear for signals—these were the runners; all others faced the Jin.

At the vanguard of the Jin forces marched a thousand Han auxiliaries—mere cannon fodder—followed by eight hundred armored troops, a thousand unarmored bannermen, with a reserve of two hundred armored men and a hundred and fifty elite warriors. The remaining thousand Han auxiliaries and a thousand unarmored men waited to plunder once the fighting began.