Chapter 129: Please Save Me

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Not wearing matching battle jackets.

Sounds easy enough.

But in practice, Liu Chengzong found he had underestimated the difficulty.

Wang Zhuang had plenty of cotton and a fair amount of cotton cloth, but at best, it was only enough to make a little over a thousand sets of cotton-padded jackets and pants.

The color choice was even more troubling.

The best military uniforms were red; red battle attire could inspire courage.

Black was also good—solemn, serious, and dirt-resistant.

But Liu Chengzong couldn’t pick either color—there was no dye, only the natural color of purple-flowered cloth, which, when washed darker, looked like light ochre, and when lighter, resembled earth tones.

This puzzled Liu Chengzong for half a day.

Later, after discussing with the squad leader, they realized it wasn’t so bad—Shaanbei was covered in earth tones everywhere; a group dressed in such colors could, from a distance, potentially fool scouts.

Besides, it didn’t snow here.

As for the design of the uniforms, Liu Chengzong tried to think creatively, but given the realities—no production line—simplicity was key.

Complex designs were easy to draw up but hard to produce.

If Wang Zhuang’s villagers and the women in the troop made them, the results were a mismatched mess, even more complicated than the design, losing the advantage of uniformity.

In the end, they settled on a uniform that included a cotton hat with a neck flap suitable as a helmet liner, a round-collared, arrow-sleeved robe called yesa, an arrow-sleeved cotton jacket, cotton pants tapered at the calves, and thick cloth leg wraps.

They sewed a few cords inside the yesa to tie the arrow-sleeved cotton jacket underneath as a lining.

When cold, the cotton jacket was worn; when warmer, it could be removed, leaving a looser single layer that didn’t impede wearing the yesa.

The cotton jackets and pants were quilted with vertical lines spaced an inch apart to keep the cotton evenly distributed.

They had no shoes; making soles was too labor-intensive, and there was no one to sew them for now, so they relied on Chengyun to purchase from various villages around Yan’an Prefecture.

Regardless, the general’s intention to equip the camp with uniforms boosted the morale of the Lion Battalion.

With these uniforms, once winter came and they layered armor and padded armor over them, they wouldn’t fully resist the cold, but the winter of the second year of Chongzhen might well be the warmest many had ever experienced.

It was enough to exhilarate both combat and auxiliary soldiers.

Liu Chengzong first had a set made and gave it to Shang Tianhou, tricking him into going to bathe.

Actually, the clothes were made to Liu’s own measurements, so they definitely didn’t fit Shang Tianhou, who was much stockier.

Shang Tianhou, unaware of this, wore the uniform with a face full of brave martyrdom and jumped into the Apricot River—no one knew why this fellow disliked bathing so much.

Later, after trying it on, it was a bit tight, but with a belt, it looked fine, so they added a wide cloth belt to the uniform.

This delighted Shang Tianhou, who strutted around showing off the uniform before the whole camp even had theirs.

The squad leader Shi Chengwo was also quite pleased.

Strangely enough, Shi Chengwo had learned the art of casting Western-style cannons from Wang Zheng in Sanyuan.

He was always nervous making bird guns in Liu’s Village.

But here, making armor pieces, he felt no fear and hammered with joy, feeling like he’d finally found a true organization.

Shi Chengwo had three small mustaches, was used to swinging a hammer, and was strong and sturdy.

When complaining, he never sounded aggrieved:

“General, you don’t know—Liu’s Village is fine, but surrounded by peasants and petty people. He Xin and I made the guns in just two families, always scared the officials would send constables to wipe us out.”

As he spoke, the middle-aged craftsman gestured toward the Apricot River valley:

“This is different. If your troops can't hold them off, then if we get caught by the government army, it’s no injustice.”

The two craftsmen had been wanted men, fleeing to Yan’an Prefecture for refuge—truly jumping into the lion’s den—but they weren’t too troubled.

On the contrary, they quite liked the sense of security surrounded by deserters.

On their way here, they had already agreed to prepare a gift for Liu Chengzong.

Just a few days after arrival, Shi Chengwo picked a suitable item from his belongings to present to Liu Chengzong.

It was a hand cannon.

Unfortunately, the timing was off—Shi Chengwo came bearing the cannon while Liu Chengzong was at the shooting range practicing archery.

Liu, the Lion, raised his ninety-pound strong bow and in just moments shot three consecutive arrows cleanly into the target.

Swift and precise.

His strength had returned.

Shooting with a volley of arrows requires short intervals, no chance to aim carefully—one hesitation and you miss.

But if the strength was back, that was no problem.

The triple shots left Shi Chengwo standing nearby, utterly dumbfounded.

“Master Liu, that scholar-like man, how did he produce such a fierce general boy?” he muttered.

Shi Chengwo doubted whether the general would appreciate the things he and He Xin had crafted in Liu’s Village.

The general’s archery was simply faster and more powerful than the guns.

In the Ming army, many soldiers used firearms, but whether in the capital garrison or elsewhere, weapons were chosen according to the soldier’s capability.

Firearms hadn’t yet decisively replaced bows.

If skilled with bow and horse, use the bow; if weak or untrained, learning the gun was better.

“Master Shi, what brings you here?”

Shi Chengwo was the squad leader of the engineering squad, but maybe because he had two souls in his head, Liu Chengzong greatly respected skilled craftsmen, always addressing them as “master.”

Seeing Shi Chengwo holding a lacquered wooden box, Liu put away his bow and arrows and asked, “Did you make some treasure?”

Being called “master” delighted Shi Chengwo but also made him a bit ashamed—having eaten the Liu family’s food so long and only making a hand cannon to show for it.

He resolved silently: next time, he would bring the general a fully functional Western cannon to deserve such respect.

This little hand cannon was hardly a proper gift.

Shi Chengwo pushed the wooden box forward and said, “We made a hand cannon, General.”

Liu Chengzong was very interested.

Firearms were the future of warfare, destined over a long evolution to replace all cold weapons.

Though other weapons weren’t yet obsolete, Liu had personally experienced the lesson of Zhong Hu’s blood.

Without that shield, even armor couldn’t save him at close range; Zhong Hu’s head would have been buried seven days ago.

Liu opened the box and found a single-barreled hand cannon, finely made, with five accompanying bullets.

The grip felt good, and there was a five-inch chain ending with a thick iron plate attached.

He asked, “Is this a 'Folangji'?”

It resembled the small ‘Folangji’ cannons he’d seen in Cao Yao’s artillery squad—using a thick iron plate to seal the breech for airtightness.

Heavier ‘Folangji’ with greater powder charge usually used three- or four-inch thick wooden wedges instead of iron plates; otherwise, the few-hundred-pound cannons would be too heavy with iron plates.

“Yes, a ‘Folangji’!” Shi Chengwo explained.

“The barrel is one foot long. The bullet uses grain-like explosive powder; the outer powder chamber uses powdered powder as a fuse.

After loading the powder chamber and barrel, we seal it with thin paper dipped in paste to prevent powder from escaping.

As long as it stays dry, the paper—made specially by a paper mill—is ignited by the match cord to fire.”

The caster wore a smug expression:

“The ingenious part is, after firing the first bullet, the others don’t need to be re-primed.

You pull out the lock, unload the bullet, reload the bullet and lock, then just pull the trigger again—five shots in a row.”

Liu Chengzong understood, examining the hand cannon carefully.

This was basically a ‘Folangji’ hand cannon, with a subtle improvement: the priming powder was preloaded into the external powder chamber and covered with flammable thin paper.

If the paper tore, the improvement was lost.

But as long as the paper held, it was a deadly weapon in close-quarters formation combat.

He asked, “How far can it shoot?”

“Short barrel; hitting small targets at twenty paces is tricky; at twelve or thirteen paces, it can pierce armor; maximum range about fifty paces.”

The barrel was about the same length as the three-eye and single-eye bird guns, with similar power and accuracy.

Maybe at fifty paces, shooting at the front line infantry, it could annoy the enemy commander.

“Good stuff!” Liu held the long tube, looking it over again.

He asked Shi Chengwo, “You said it could fire five shots in a row. What about after firing all five?”

Shi Chengwo blinked, caught off guard.

Who was so greedy to ask that?

At face-to-face distance, firing five shots in a row was already plenty; after that, you’d better draw a knife.

But grateful for the general’s respect, he pondered briefly and nodded:

“After five shots… it gets hot.

I’m always careful. The bullets and cannon are made with the same front-thin, back-thick design as the Western cannon.

We tested loading triple powder charges; normally, if it doesn’t get red-hot, it can keep firing.”

He pointed to the grip:

“There’s also a lock inside the grip.

If the lock breaks, you can pull out the grip and use that to fire.”

This little thing packed a punch.

Peasant soldiers should use more of these.

A starving man with ordinary weapons couldn’t replace a seasoned border soldier, but with this and cannons, they could.

They could even aim and shoot calmly from horseback or muleback.

Liu asked, “If we make these, how many can we produce?”

“Short barrels are easy to roll and drill.

Making the bullets is the hard part.

Three blacksmiths make barrels, two make bullets, two carpenters make stocks.

With enough materials, nine can be produced in a month.”

Strangely, ever since Cao the old villain mentioned Liu’s Village’s bird gun production capacity, Liu now calculated it annually.

Seven craftsmen, working until the thirty-eighth year of Chongzhen, could equip the entire Lion Battalion with these formidable weapons.

In theory, the battalion’s engineering squad could increase output three to five times, but the craftsmen couldn’t work on just these.

Meaning, in four months, they could have over thirty of these.

Liu imagined thirty or so musketeers standing in the infantry line, firing volleys over the shoulders of the front line.

The front line would fight with spears, then volley fire again—it wouldn’t be bad.

If well executed, they could break enemy formations.

If not, it wasn’t the weapon’s fault; if the enemy’s heavy artillery sprayed shrapnel, that was just bad luck.

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His personal retainers needed to be equipped with a batch of these.

“Do it. Get materials from Chengyun. On second thought…” Liu stopped mid-sentence, recalling Chengyun’s recent busy work purchasing quilts.

He waved a hand, “Find Lin Wei instead.

Make thirty sets for winter; Wang Zhuang has no shortage of materials.”

Now the Lion Battalion was fully staffed.

Chengyun was no longer a lone commander; he had taken two early subordinates from Gao Xian as captains.

They led eighteen border soldiers from Yanshuiguan, Guyuan camp, and Liuguo town, plus five hundred auxiliaries from Shang Tianhou’s unit, forming a logistics squad under Liu Chengyun’s command.

Liu Chengzong also allocated some war spoils and a hundred dan of millet as startup funds for purchasing donkeys, mules, and pack carts to transport supplies in the future.

By October, the five squads spread out to various posts.

Border combat troops trained auxiliaries.

Newly made uniforms were delivered to Wang Zhuang, then distributed to the armed teams.

Warm clothing meant combat effectiveness.

New cotton and cloth uniforms were a luxury not seen even by the border troops for years, let alone the starving men under Shang Tianhou.

Earlier this year, Liu Chengzong had thought about adding a wolf fur lining to his tattered battle jacket.

Now he had a warm set of uniforms himself.

Of course, he had not forgotten to retrieve three wolf pelts from Liu’s Village.

He remembered clearly that only one of those pelts concerned him.

One was Gao Xian’s.

They tried it on but it wasn’t enough to line a cotton jacket, so they simply sewed a band around the waist and abdomen.

The leftover pelts were just right to line the cotton hat’s neck flap, keeping out winter drafts.

The other wolf was killed by Hongqi, who had kicked it to death.

They laid the pelt on Hongqi, making a saddle bag pad so this red-haired kid could stay warm.

There had to be an order to distributing uniforms.

Liu Chengzong decided to give the wounded first, as they had weaker resistance and couldn’t wear armor; cotton clothes would be more comfortable.

Combat and auxiliary soldiers would receive theirs together.

When enough uniforms were ready to give each squad two sets, they would be officially distributed.

Pretty much every day, new uniforms were finished and handed out.

Everyone was excited, and fairness was key.

Even so, the equality was only superficial.

Combat soldiers were fewer, so they still got their uniforms first.

There was no way around it; Liu’s strength came from border soldiers, deserters, and defectors, so he had to favor his base.

Of course, he didn’t forget others.

He sent cotton jackets and pants to Liu Guoneng, recovering in Yan’an garrison.

The next day, Liu Guoneng arrived, wearing the cotton clothes and dragging a broken leg on a donkey cart.

The cart was driven by Yang Yanchang, the commander of Yan’an garrison.

Hundred-household chief Chen Ruji led about twenty cavalry as escort, yet no one drove the cart.

The commander himself sat sideways on the shafts, guiding the donkey cart.

It was pitiful to see a commander who couldn’t even manage one man.

But Yang’s misery was only beginning.

Entering the Apricot River valley, three miles from Wang Zhuang, Yang Yanchang gave up driving the cart and led the donkey on foot.

It was a sorry sight.

If not for Liu Chengzong having the mounted scouts send early orders—and a spyglass fixed on him—he might have been fooled by Yang’s pitiful appearance.

As soon as Yang Yanchang entered Wang Zhuang’s fortress gate, he abandoned Liu Guoneng and ran straight to Liu Chengzong, shouting, “Brother Chengzong, save me!”

Liu was startled; he thought Yang came for a cotton jacket.

He stepped back quickly, “No, who wants to kill you? Why should I save you?”

“The emperor—Emperor Chongzhen—the emperor wants to kill me!”

“Sit down and talk.”

Liu’s expression grew serious, motioning for Yang to sit.

“Have you been exposed? How can I save you?”

“No exposure, but only you can save me,” Yang grasped Liu’s hand, eyes wide, staring at him.

“Beat me—beat me hard!”

Liu thought, this was bad—maybe Ren Quan’er was controlling Yang Yanchang too strictly, driving him crazy.

This was already the second time he heard such a strange request.

“The Eastern barbarians have entered the pass.

The emperor has decreed all regions to rally troops.

Me! Rally troops!

I have two wives and five children, going to fight is a death sentence.”

Yang followed quickly:

“Either your men come with me, or you beat me hard, beat me until I can’t leave Yan’an Prefecture. Otherwise, I’m doomed!”

Liu heard none of this except the first sentence.

The Eastern barbarians have entered the pass.