Chapter Seventy-Two: Officer Liu Is Truly Kind

Because of Liu Chengzong’s butterfly effect, a whirlwind began to stir within the Garrison of Yan’an.

When Yang Yanchang, the probationary company commander, parted ways with Liu Chengzong that day, he suddenly realized that it was absurd to be starving while sitting atop mountains of gold and silver. The “gold and silver” here, of course, referred to military equipment and weapons.

To put it plainly, the trade of military arms along the nine borders of Ming China had long become common practice. Even the watchtowers along the Great Wall had been stripped bare, with nothing left to sell. Yet here in the Yan’an Garrison, such dealings were still confined to internal handovers—what was in the left hand was passed to the right.

Usually, commanders would gather up whatever could be spared from the garrison’s stores, patch up what could still be used, and issue them to their household troops. Ordinary flag soldiers could only hope to sell surplus swords, spears, or arrows to the local populace for self-defense.

Large-scale arms smuggling wasn’t for lack of desire, but simply because there were no buyers. The prefectural city was the military heart of Yan’an Prefecture, and within a hundred li, there were no large-scale bandit groups. Even if any managed to slip through, they were swiftly eradicated. Otherwise, petty bandits like the Tiger General of Ganquan, who could muster several hundred men, wouldn’t have been wiped out in just four days after raiding the wealthy.

As for the local gentry, those who had both the need and the means to acquire large quantities of arms could easily obtain them through official channels by petitioning the prefectural or county offices. Moreover, with the right connections—a word to the commander, a detachment of fifty or a hundred men could be stationed right at home: tending the fields by day, with weapons and armor safely stored in the compound. Not only were they protected by force, but they also generated economic value.

Smuggling was pointless: it was costly and fraught with risk.

That was until Liu Chengzong approached Yang Yanchang, opening a new world for this impoverished probationary company commander.

Grain had no use for a man intent on desertion, but three dan of grain could save many brothers left behind in the garrison. To Yang Yanchang, this was a method that could be used long-term: deserters would seize fortified compounds, the flag soldiers would slip away in batches, smuggling out arms before departing, and the grain would help those who stayed behind. The cannons sent out would strengthen the deserters, allowing them to seize more compounds and help even more flag soldiers.

This, Yang Yanchang thought, wasn’t desertion. This was starting a business!

Yang Yanchang went back to the armory and soon found his target—a cast-iron Yongzhu cannon, one foot seven inches long, eight inches in circumference, weighing forty-five jin, its barrel bound with five iron hoops. It could fire a one jin two liang ball with eight liang of powder, or twenty one-liang balls.

This particular cannon was cast in the third year of the Wanli reign, with serial number 2241. That year, the court had produced 2,400 of this model to outfit the mobile wagon camps. In the Shaanxi border forces, these cannons were also issued to the cavalry, with one per fifty horsemen.

A small cannon, meant to supplement the firepower of bows, crossbows, and muskets. The complete set—barrel, square wooden mount, ammunition box—weighed less than two hundred jin and could be carried by a single packhorse.

“There’s no mount for that cannon. Is Company Commander Yang planning to play around with it?” said the old flag soldier guarding the armory, sitting by the door with the detached wisdom of one who’s seen it all. “And the powder and shot are not for general issue.”

Yang Yanchang glared, “How am I supposed to fire it without a mount?”

The mount for the Yongzhu cannon was a solid wooden block, three feet long, one and a half feet wide, and one foot high, carved with grooves to fit the five iron hoops of the barrel, with four rings for leather straps to secure it. When firing, you had to wedge blocks under the mount, adjusting the barrel’s elevation by an inch to get the desired range.

Without a mount, the cannon couldn’t possibly be fired lying on the ground.

The old guard shrugged, “You can’t blame me. Since I took over the armory, this grandpa’s never had a mount. In the eighteenth year of Wanli, when Lord Ye was governor of Shaanxi and Gansu, all the mounts were swapped out for three-wheeled carts. Later, someone from your household took the cart home, hitching it to a donkey. Heaven knows what for. Anyway, it never came back. They just told us to make do with the old mounts. But after all these years, who knows who took the wooden mounts to make furniture?”

Who else but this old flag soldier would have taken it for furniture, Yang Yanchang thought. But he said nothing, just grumbled as he walked away, “No mount, no shot—what good is it to me?”

Outwardly, he wore a look of disgust, but inside, he was ecstatic. If he didn’t leave now, the old guard would surely see through his joy.

With the cannon, mount, and ammo box together, it would be difficult to smuggle them out. But the cannon alone—forty-five jin—could easily be wrapped in a bedsheet and carried off.

It was a godsend!

As for the missing mount and ammunition, that would be Liu Chengzong’s problem. He had promised the cannon, and that was enough.

Soon, orders to mobilize troops from Yan’an Prefecture were issued to the garrison officers—Shaanxi would launch a three-pronged campaign against the bandits on the third day of the sixth month.

The entire Yan’an Garrison was thrown into chaotic preparations—men, arms, and horses being dispatched here and there.

Taking advantage of the confusion, on the night of the first day of the sixth month, Yang Yanchang made his move.

He instructed three flag soldiers.

One slipped into the armory, wrapped the cannon in an old cotton coat, and tossed it over the courtyard wall.

Another, waiting outside, caught it like a man cradling a plump child, and after darting through alleys, handed it off to the last man.

This last was Ren Quan’er, nineteen years old, short and wiry, descended from seven generations of hereditary soldiers, who had been fetching and carrying in the garrison since he was five.

He hoisted the cannon, bundled in its ragged coat, and set off for Tiger’s Waist that very night.

Unfamiliar with the roads and suffering from night blindness brought on by hunger, he got stuck in a tree.

It was only when Liu Chengzong came by with his men on their morning run that they rescued him.

Yang Yanchang’s instructions regarding the cannon and its mount were relayed to Liu Chengzong.

But Liu Chengzong cared more about the man than the cannon.

Now that the cannon had reached Tiger’s Waist, it wasn’t going anywhere.

But it was hard to say whether this filthy, scrawny Ren might be carrying some disease.

A round of questioning followed.

He had no other ailments, just a wound on his foot.

Two months earlier, he’d clipped his toenail with a tailor’s scissors at night and cut himself. Soldiers in the garrison never had a free moment. When fields could be tilled, they worked the land. When they couldn’t, they still had to dig—pulling up unsprouted seeds day after day, just to fill half a bowl. All that labor left his foot inflamed, healing and festering in turn, making him slow-footed.

Now, with the garrison out of food, others still hoped to earn merit on the battlefield, but his poor health made him unfit for the campaign, so he’d considered desertion.

Once Liu Chengzong understood, he ordered Guo Zhasi to tie him up.

Ren was so frightened he wailed aloud.

“What are you yelling for? That foot of yours needs looking after. Zhasi, go fetch a bucket of water and boil it. I’ll cut away the rotten flesh; rest up for two months and you should be fine.”

Most border soldiers knew a bit about treating wounds, and Liu Chengzong had some surgical knowledge himself. He’d first learned suturing from a tanner at the foot of the Great Wall during the autumn plague, then read medical texts like “The True Principles of Surgery.” But with no medicine at hand, there was little he could do except clean the wound and let Ren rest.

This left Ren dumbstruck.

Not because of the debridement.

But because he was told to rest for two months.

He kept asking Liu Chengzong, “Won’t I starve to death in two months?”

Hearing, “Just rest, you’ll be fed,” this child of a military household, who hadn’t rested a day since he was five, was moved to tears.

For Liu Chengzong, this was putting his recent lessons to use—an insight from his elder brother Chengzu: when soldiers are wounded or sick, the commander’s attentive care wins their hearts.

By the time they got to washing his foot, Ren was already in tears. When it came time to cut away the dead flesh, though his whole body flushed with pain, he gritted his teeth and didn’t move, determined not to trouble Officer Liu.

When it was all over, he threw his arms around Liu Chengzong, weeping and repeating over and over, “Officer Liu is so good, so good!”