Chapter Fifteen: The Sweep

Liu Chengzong stood atop the knoll, waving a great banner, while behind him, the bald-headed Xiao Shiliu pounded fiercely on the waist drum, beating out a frantic rhythm. The daughters and young wives of border soldiers, clad in flower-patterned jackets, struck their small drums in disarray, the cacophony more nerve-wracking than stirring. At the very rear stood Sister-in-law Cao, a Japanese-style saber slung at her waist and a short bow in hand.

These were no war drums; the sound was not meant to be understood, nor to convey any message. It was simply to intimidate—to make the bandits believe they faced government troops, and further, to trick them into thinking reinforcements were closing in for an encirclement.

Whether it was the drums or the initial shock at the sight of the soldiers’ cloth armor, Liu Chengzong could not say. But he saw clearly: the moment his elder brother and Cao Yao’s two squads swept into the village, the bandits began to break like a receding tide. Some among them fought bravely, charging in pairs and trios, but their efforts were futile; before they even reached the ranks, spearmen hurled their javelins, felling them one by one. When the soldiers drew close, a finishing blow sufficed; they retrieved their javelins and advanced over the corpses, forcing over a hundred bandits to scatter and flee eastward with a force of barely thirty men.

The two squads advanced deliberately, their formation maintained by both captains. As they neared the earthen barricade, they combined into a three-row line, wings forward and center in reserve, forming a crescent to press the attack.

With a thunderous bang, smoke billowed up from the ranks—Cao Yao had fired his triple-barreled hand cannon into the air. The triple-barrel was a short, matchlock gun with three one-foot barrels mounted on a long stave. To fire, one supported it with an arm and shoulder, igniting the touchhole with a match. Its short barrels made it ill-suited to accurate shooting.

In this era, the triple-barreled gun was already an old weapon. Southern soldiers, under the influence of Qi Jiguang, favored the bird-gun, yet in the northern border armies, Qi’s reforms met little success. The bird-gun, with its built-in powder pan, required pouring in powder and shot, and its external flash pan needed a touch of priming powder. But in the windy north, the priming powder was often blown away before it could ignite.

Thus, the triple-barreled gun remained widely issued among the northern border troops. Skilled cavalrymen could fire these unwieldy weapons while mounted at a gallop—a style of combat quite unlike the bird-gun. The bird-gun fired farther and more accurately, but the triple-barreled gun was for broad effect. In the border defense regiments facing the Mongols of the Hetao, where skirmishes involved hundreds or thousands of horsemen, the triple-barreled gun was treated as a one-shot scattergun: each barrel packed with two or three lead balls, fired at close range to splatter the lightly armored raiders with blood, then wielded as a club for melee.

It was neither a repeating gun nor a mere noisemaker—it was a cheap, effective weapon of its time, ideal for dealing with unarmored foes.

In long-range combat, the border troops still relied largely on bows. The short bow was for rapid fire at distance, while the heavy long bow was reserved for close combat and powerful shots. When the garrison at Yuhe Fort left for campaign, they had surrendered all their firearms—only Cao Yao kept his triple-barreled gun, more as a signal cannon than a weapon, in case misfortune forced him to turn outlaw again.

As a signal cannon, the triple-barreled gun’s short barrels and quick reload made it the most efficient means of communication on the battlefield. Cao Yao’s shot sent a clear message to Liu Chengzong: first, that the bandits were in full flight and the cavalry could be unleashed; second, to target the cripple.

The bandits had no time to take stock. It’s said a man without a backbone cannot stand; and the bandit chief, White Hawk, was their backbone. During the surprise attack, all eyes searched for the chief’s figure. Without White Hawk, the scattered bandits were nothing but a rabble; with him, it was clear leadership—he was already escaping east with several sub-leaders and seven or eight grain carts, nearly out of the village, and the others lost all will to fight.

Lowering the banner, Liu Chengzong hurried down the slope. On the main road, twelve border cavalrymen stood waiting by their horses near the red flag. Everything had been arranged beforehand: under Liu’s command, they would cut off the fleeing bandits from the east.

It was a routine they knew well, a celebration for the abandoned pawns of the border army. The men mounted their freshly saddled horses, which bucked awkwardly, unused to riders after so long. To the soldiers, it seemed even their mounts were eager for battle.

They rode in silence, hooves ringing with solid, determined thunder upon the yellow earth. To ensure the cavalry could fulfill their mission, Liu Chengzong raised his strong bow and issued orders. On the main road, the squad performed their last pre-battle maneuvers, assembling, merging, changing formation, then trotted neatly toward the fields east of the village.

The bandits within had exhausted all means. Some tried to block the soldiers and were brought down by thrown javelins; even the lucky ones could not escape the infantry’s knives. Those who tried to resist were swiftly cut down; the rest fell into disorder, pushing each other, flinging coins in desperation.

The government soldiers’ slow, methodical advance meant the bandits thought they could escape. At the eastern gate, White Hawk finally sensed something was amiss. He halted his followers, climbed atop a grain cart, and looked back westward.

“It looks like the imperial soldiers have no reinforcements—just those thirty men, and not even a proper banner,” he muttered.

Although the Ming border armies had declined in fighting strength due to corruption and fiscal woes, their morale, training, and discipline remained formidable—troops unpaid for three years would still march out at the emperor’s command, a testament to their esprit de corps.

In regular armies, even a minor officer on a landlord’s errand would carry a helmet and flag; White Hawk, seasoned by years of skirmishing, knew this well. But now, this government force had only bare helmets and spears—no banner in sight. The flag that had waved on the knoll at first wasn’t even a real military standard: it bore no four-colored flying tiger, no five-directional divine sigil, not even the twenty-eight constellations.

The initial panic fading, White Hawk cursed himself. “I’ve been duped by these ragtag fakes—they’re just deserters! Without supplies, they’ll starve. Gather everyone and—no, forget it. Form up and escort the grain carts!”

Sober as he was, White Hawk had no illusions. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to fight; the bandits were simply too terrified—any order to counterattack would mean sending men to their deaths.

In that moment’s hesitation, hoofbeats thundered from the south—a squad of border cavalry charged in. One rider led, the other twelve in three ranks behind, each gripping the reins in their left hand, saber in the right, blades resting on their right shoulders, galloping forward with unstoppable momentum.

Before they even closed in, the bandits clustered around the grain carts scattered like waves. As Liu Chengzong neared, only three or four petrified men remained by the carts, unmoved despite White Hawk’s desperate shouts.

White Hawk snatched up his bow, but before he could nock an arrow, Liu Chengzong wheeled his horse aside, drew his bow to the full, and loosed a feathered shaft. A cry of pain rang out behind him—someone had been struck. In the next instant, his ears were filled with the screams of the cavalry slashing into the bandits.

Note: The cavalry’s formation and the sabers resting on the shoulder are based on depictions of border troops from the Wanli era of the Ming dynasty, as seen in the “Victory at Pingfan” scroll.