The Yangtze's Final Embrace
The last remnants of the Yellow Turbans in Xu Province had set up camp with the Yangtze River at their backs. Whether this was a desperate backwater defense meant as a ploy for some other scheme, or simply a last resort born of necessity, no one knew. In the war council, however, the majority—including myself—leaned toward the latter. To be safe, Tao Qian decided we'd hold position for just one day.
I gazed at the camp tinged yellow in the distance. It was too far to make out clear shapes, but the chaotic disarray stood out sharply. Amid the mess, they must have had time to reposition their wagons, for flashes of golden light glinted repeatedly from the piles scattered throughout the camp.
Fire attack's out—too many supplies. Cavalry hits their flanks, but if they charge straight at us... no, that flips the hammer and anvil on us.
The sight of their lines, looking like they'd crumble at the poke of a needle, stirred a reckless bravado in me. It was just regret over those supplies going up in smoke. I shook my head to clear the stray thoughts.
I wonder if their center can hold?
This encirclement would involve the militia too. The regular army would spread wide wings to surround them and feed the Yellow Turbans to the Yangtze as fish food. With roughly equal numbers, encircling the enemy meant thinning our flanking wings. If we foolishly used the militia for the wings and they got torn apart, all our previous subjugation efforts would be for naught. That's why Tao Qian placed the militia in the center, where no fancy maneuvers were needed.
They trained well, and they've seen real combat now. Should be fine.
All they had to do was hold formation and advance slowly. If some enemy general charged out to smash our lines, we'd just pin him with arrows like always.
After a day of facing off, we fed the troops well, sharpening their discipline. The well-fed soldiers occasionally bellowed taunts at the Yellow Turban camp, and you could see their yellow banners twitch in response. They tried to shout back, but their obvious disadvantage blunted their efforts into a muddle. Then four or five of ours would pile on the mockery, only for the officers to step in and bark at them to cut it out.
Each exchange ended with our side chuckling, while theirs fell deathly silent.
"Aren't you lot going to jeer at them? No time left for farewells after today."
I asked why my militia wasn't joining in the taunts.
"What's the point of greeting guys about to kick the bucket?"
"They're crossing the River of Three Roads soon enough—let 'em practice."
Their responses were masterpieces. I alternated my gaze between the two camps, comparing them from afar. The contrast in morale was a sight to behold.
The troops, bellies full from breakfast, gripped their weapons. Tao Qian stepped forward for a speech to boost spirits, weaving the Emperor, the heavens, and the rebels into a masterful tapestry of rhetoric.
"...Then let me ask you! Is Heaven truly yellow?"
"No!"
"Then where lies the Mandate of Heaven?"
"Right here!"
"That's right! We will sweep away these traitors and claim victory!"
"Waaah!!!"
Each question from Tao Qian drew deafening roars from the troops, leaving my ears ringing. When the speech ended, he signaled the standard-bearers and drummers to advance. The cavalry moved first to take position, followed by the infantry.
They'll probably start the main push within an hour.
As the center, my militia had a bit more time, giving me a chance to say a few words.
"The bastards who wrecked your families, your homes—everything—they're right there."
Rage and hatred darkened the militia's eyes. I'd handpicked them for their grudges; one jab was enough to stir their emotions.
"Now's the time for revenge."
"Yes, sir!"
No cowards looking to bolt remained—only those eager to drag a few more along as companions in death.
The two armies met midway between the camps. Rather than slaughtering the Yellow Turbans one by one, the subjugation force aimed to shove them into the Yangtze. The Yellow Turbans fought desperately to gain even a little ground upfront, buying space to fall back.
"Pointless resistance."
"They can't just die nice and easy, I guess."
But without anyone who could walk on water—no Jesus among them, no Moses to part the Yangtze—their fate was sealed: die by spear or drown.
Bwoooo~
Drums and horns carried on the wind, and the troops followed. The front lines charged with shouts, crashing into the enemy soon after. Metal clanged on metal, axes splintered shields, arrows tore throats and sprayed blood. Screams filled every gap on the chaotic battlefield.
"Hold your ground!"
"Fourth rank! Thrust!"
The center, bolstered by the militia, held firm under heavy pressure. Man-sized greatshields stood wall-like, long spears thrusting out from the gaps in endless rhythm. The spearpoints beyond pierced every charging foe, claiming lives. As corpses piled before the shields, the Yellow Turbans stopped coming.
"You scum! Taste my axe!"
Of course, some dodged spears to close in on the shields.
Ping!
"Gahk!"
I wasn't about to miss someone drawing all that attention alone. From the center, I sniped the bold ones with arrows. Close enough that I didn't need the repeating crossbow—just regular shots.
Dong dong dong. Bwoooo~
"Advance ten paces!"
""Advance ten paces!""
Command struck three drumbeats, then the horn for advance. Officers bellowed the order, troops echoed it, and moved. We stepped over strewn corpses, shoving the Yellow Turbans back. The ground was slick with blood from crushed flesh and shattered bones.
An hour in, the Yangtze loomed close; their rear touched their own camp. The Yellow Turban palisade, 200 paces from the river, was sloppily built. They slipped smoothly into it.
Crash!
Tents and wagons hampered their retreat. When the front fell back a step, the rear managed half, flanks got jammed. Clusters formed everywhere, arms too cramped to swing properly.
"Don't retreat! Hold position!"
Enemy officers screamed to maintain formation, but it was too late. Those willing to charge us lay dead on the field. Only cowards valuing their skins remained.
Dong dong dong. Bwoooo~
"Advance ten paces!"
""Advance ten paces!""
No reason to give the disorganized Yellow Turbans breathing room. Tao Qian pressed faster than before. Our spirited step forward forced them half back—where space was nil.
Now they weren't fighting us, just avoiding being trampled by their own. A few unlucky ones tangled and got crushed already.
"Rotate first and second ranks."
Seeing the greatshield bearers tire, I ordered swaps with the second rank. Our militia section was narrow enough for small wheel formations. Despite the heavy shields, we kept pace with the flanks.
Half an hour of this advance, and the enemy stopped recoiling from our spear thrusts. Glancing at their camp, their rear hugged the riverbank. Rearmost troops: one more step back, and they'd drink nose-deep.
Splash!
A distant plop into the water. Tangled feet, probably—a Yellow Turban drowning. That splashing was their funeral dirge.
Splash. Splash.
Each of our steps amplified the splashes. Some shoved in, some jumped willingly. They prolonged their pathetic ends, stepping on comrades-turned-stepping-stones to become river ghosts.
As the river's dirge swelled, Yellow Turban faces darkened. When the music stopped, they'd all be dead—obvious as day.
Now our troops waded in too.
"Almost there! Keep pushing!"
Fewer than a few hundred Yellow Turbans lived. The current slowed us, but mattered not—our corpse-bridge advanced faster than their retreat.
"It's over."
The last one shoved into the river brought a fishy stench. Close to the sea, I couldn't tell if it was ocean brine or blood reek. Recalling Yingchuan last time, I didn't bother distinguishing.
With the final battle done, cleanup was swift. The Yellow Turbans had looted our left-behind Tiger Clan holdings clean as a show of force; we claimed their gathered supplies. War spoils swapped for the Tiger Clan's goods and lands went to Tao Qian. Even after his promised rewards—with premium—he'd profit. Good investment betting on his win.
Before returning to his administrative seat, Tao Qian threw a victory banquet. He sat at the head, merits dictating seats below.
"You commanded the right flank masterfully—that's why we won."
"Haha, the left flank moved brilliantly too."
Tao Qian praised everyone in turn, livening the mood. Seats descending by merit, my turn came quick.
"The Colonel's contributions were great too. Your militia made this subjugation easy."
"How could my humble efforts compare to yours, Governor?"
"Grateful for those words."
A brief exchange, then on to the next. I picked at side dishes, observing Tao Qian.
If my knowledge held, he'd use this win to rally the Tiger Clans' support. Strike while his stock was highest, easing his path to Xu Province governorship later.
As drunkenness peaked and the mood crested, dancers withdrew, musicians quieted. Silence fell over the clamor. All eyes turned to Tao Qian.
Then one of his aides stood with cup raised.
"Since the Governor's arrival, Xu Province's rampant bandits vanished, peace returned. All thanks to your brilliant virtue! Your feats will earn the admiration of all Xu Province."
"No need to gild routine duty."
Tao Qian demurred but eyed the Tiger Clans and generals. Some nodded; others watched warily, silent.
In this spot, first mover wins favor.
The line favors the frontrunner. No intention of yielding my spot.
I rose, cup high, to shatter the awkward air and nudge Tao Qian along.
"Without you, Governor, how could we punish those rampaging Yellow Turbans? Xu Province's people gained a fatherly guardian—true fortune. Lead us as you have, mindful of the folk, and all will bask in peace and joy!"
I voiced support for his rule, subtly phrased. My lead unleashed a torrent of flattery.
"The Governor deserves it."
"Can't imagine Xu without you!"
Tao Qian beamed, soaking in the praise. With ample backing confirmed, he'd deem the banquet a success.
Home at last, I asked immediately,
"How's my wife?"