The Mandate of Heaven (21 page)

Hsiung looked down at the weeping girl. Unfamiliar emotions stirred. ‘I shall ensure everyone’s safety,’ he said. ‘Do not be afraid.’

Her look of gratitude encouraged him to deserve it. He strode back up the corridor, Jin in close pursuit. She watched his broad back with slightly parted lips.

On the afternoon of that same day Hsiung ordered a rest. The command passed down the column from officer to officer and four hundred men gladly obeyed, laying down stores of provisions and bundles of arrows. They had stripped the camp to maintain themselves in the limestone hills, a ground unforgiving to anyone ill-prepared.

Hsiung strolled among huddled soldiers, praising some, rebuking others, his face and voice entirely free of doubt. Yet face hid heart.

Leaving the apparent safety of the camp had not been easy, but he knew it was more cage than haven. Even if the palisade and ditch had been stouter, a few volleys of fire arrows would set the thatched hovels ablaze, driving the defenders to take shelter beneath the cliffs at the end of the camp where they would be trapped. Even the monkey paths he had established on the encircling cliffs offered the slimmest chance of escape.

No, he knew their best hope lay in defeating, or at least delaying, the Mongol force before it sealed them in. Yet to do so meant disobeying Hornets’ Nest’s order to protect the rebel camp at all costs – and so, by implication, his treasury up in the cavern.

Hsiung had sent runners to their chief at Mirror Lake with a simple appeal: return at once or find the Red Turban cause destroyed. Then, conscience appeased, he had made his decision: march out and fight, while they still could.

Hsiung walked down the column, pausing at a group of new recruits. All saluted or bowed in a pleasingly obsequious way. A few wore the blue tattoos of the Yulai tribesmen.

‘You,’ he said, addressing one. ‘Are you familiar with Dragon Whirl Gorge and Market?’

The man nodded, looking at his comrades.

‘We all are. It is our home village.’

‘Come with me.’

Hsiung listened to their tale then led them to the front of the column for a conference with his officers. Many of the older men clearly viewed his authority with suspicion but dared not protest. Others regarded the tribesmen as semi-barbarous and scarcely concealed their distaste.

‘The fact that Jebe Khoja has chosen to approach our camp via Dragon Whirl Gorge shows he has local guides,’ he announced. ‘Good! So do we. And better ones. These men are from Dragon Whirl Market and will lead us directly there. Order the column to reform.’

They resumed their weary climb and descent through the hills, directed by the Yulai onto barely perceptible trails. With every step Hsiung brooded over what they would find at the Gorge. If Jebe Khoja’s force had managed to cross the river in large numbers disaster must follow. The Red Turbans’ most capable fighters were with Hornets’ Nest near Mirror Lake; a straightforward battle on equal terrain could have one result. Yet he hid his fears and stayed near the front, sometimes passing up and down the column to encourage the men.

Towards dusk they entered a twisting, snake-like valley through hills clad with sombre pines. It was a gloomy path, carpeted with thick layers of decaying pine needles. At the end their Yulai guides paused, waiting for Hsiung to catch up.

‘Not far and you will see the gorge,’ said one.

‘And the village,’ added another. ‘It is built on the hillside, like so.’

He modelled the layout with callused hands. Hsiung turned to Jin.

‘Order the men to prepare their weapons. The hundred I have selected must be ready at the front. All orders are to be whispered, not shouted. Anyone who betrays our position will be thrown off the gorge as a traitor.’

Jin saluted with both fists across his chest. ‘As you say, sire.’

Hsiung’s heart quickened. It was the first time he had been addressed by a noble title.

‘Good,’ he grunted. ‘Good.’

The Yulai led them deeper into the wood. From its eaves he stared down into Dragon Whirl Gorge and groaned with disappointment.

From this vantage point Hsiung could see everything: the gorge a dozen
li
long and one wide, white water foaming and singing between limestone precipices. On the nearest shore, a village of houses with clay-tiled roofs clinging to the green hillsides – Dragon Whirl Market. On the opposite cliff were other wooden houses, linked by a sagging bridge constructed entirely of bamboo. That was not the only way over the rapids below. Sturdy cables had been strung across in diagonal patterns. Along these one might slide from one side of the gorge to the other in less time than it took to cross a crowded city square.

All this might have been a pleasure to witness at dusk, the low sun framing Holy Mount Chang in the distance, flocks of birds congregating round their roosts, shadows forming unusual shapes, except that both the bamboo bridge and sliding ropes were unusually busy.

‘Damn them!’ cursed Hsiung, ducking out of sight.

Jebe Khoja’s army was in the process of crossing the gorge. As he watched, soldiers slid down the taut, slanting ropes in broad baskets, clutching the sides for dear life. Normally such baskets were used to transport trussed animals to the market on the other side. A dizzy way to travel: falling into the river below had a single consequence, for if the whirlpools and currents did not snatch you, the sharp stones would. A more conventional way of crossing, the bamboo bridge, was also swaying from the exertions of booted feet and armoured bodies.

Hsiung estimated nearly a hundred enemy troops had already crossed. They seemed quite at ease, slowly fanning out into the village market square, where wooden crates of chickens and piglets had been stacked among the other stalls. He noted bows strapped to their backs and weapons undrawn. Hsiung hesitated. There was still time to withdraw and establish a defensive position further back in the hills. It would give his own men a chance to rest. But well over a thousand Mongols and their Chinese auxiliaries were waiting on the opposite bank. Once they crossed, the Red Turbans would be outnumbered two or three times over.

‘Lieutenant Jin,’ he whispered, for sound carried unpredictably in that country, even above roaring water. ‘Signal the hundred ‘bravest and best’ to move forward. Our guides will lead us into the village by the most unobtrusive way.’ The Yulai tribesmen nodded to show they understood. ‘We attack at once,’ he added.

His instinct was to lead the assault. But if he fell, what would happen? He could not trust Jin to be decisive.

‘Advance now! I shall join you with the main force as soon as you engage.’

War is vast boredom and moments of aching, fearful tension: the latter consumed Hsiung. From his hiding place he watched the ‘bravest and best’ sneaking into the village. Behind him in the wood he could hear the main body of Red Turbans forming up. When the time came he would lead their charge himself.

‘Closer!’ Closer!’ he muttered. It was essential the advance party below surprised the enemy. Luckily, the Mongols did not seem to be crossing with any haste.

How many of the enemy were on the Red Turban bank of the gorge now? He estimated a hundred and fifty, perhaps two hundred. He could even see Jebe Khoja himself on the opposite cliff, conferring with officers in splendid suits of armour, flag-bearers and drummers around them. Then Hsiung remembered the terrible day, ten years, a lifetime ago, when he had watched this same handsome man ride onto the wharf at Hou-ming on a black charger, admired by all. And now that frightened boy stood ready to fight the Mongol prince – and take his head if he could.

` Perhaps Jebe Khoja sensed his intense, hostile gaze, for he shielded his eyes against the sun and stared up at Hsiung’s hiding place in the trees. At exactly that moment a scream rose from the village. A clash of weapons. The ‘bravest and best’ had been discovered.

Instantly Hsiung was on his feet. He surveyed the ranks of halberdiers and swordsmen looking up at him, many fearfully. Most had never seen a battle more dangerous than cock-fighting or childish brawls. He raised his sword.

‘Maitreya!’ he bellowed, appealing to the deity who favoured the Red Turbans. Then to their great inspiration: ‘Yueh Fei!’

Other voices took up the cry as he charged down the hill and into the village. Almost immediately he encountered a Mongol cocking an arrow. Too slow! Hsiung cut off his arm with a sword sweep and threw the man aside. He joined the ‘bravest and best’ Red Turbans, forcing a way down to the gorge and the bamboo bridge.

The rebels’ sudden attack caused instant panic amongst an enemy already wearied by a long day’s march and dispersed over a village they had been happily looting. Moreover, help from their comrades lay beyond an impassable stream.

‘Split their forces! Do not let them form ranks!’ shouted Hsiung, directing a company into the central market square, now a tangle of struggling bodies, dust and panic-stricken fowl. Piglets squealed underfoot as men butchered each other.

Almost immediately, after storming a steep roadway, the Red Turbans reached the bamboo footbridge. Hsiung could hardly believe how easy it had been. Only a few dozen Mongols were gathered to defend it. The walkway swayed and bucked as more enemy troops hurried over to join their beleaguered comrades. For a while the fight was uncertain and the Red Turbans were forced to pull back a short way.

‘Over there! Archers!’ cried Jin, gesturing at lines of men on the opposite shore.

They heard running feet and turned as a large company of their own troops arrived from the market, led by Sergeant P’ao.

‘Form up on the hillside above us!’ ordered Hsiung. ‘Shoot anyone crossing the bridge!’

Moments later the air was thick with arrows, for the Mongols also began to loose wildly, inadvertently killing some of their own men defending the bridge. A final desperate rush led by Lieutenant Jin overwhelmed the rest.

‘Cut the bridge!’ bellowed Hsiung. ‘And the slide ropes! No more must cross.’

Axes hacked at cables and he laughed exultantly as a Mongol warrior sliding down one of the ropes in a basket fell into the river. The first bridge cable parted, sending a dozen more of the enemy after their brave comrade. Others clung to the see-sawing walkway then it, too, broke, casting them into the cataract.

Hsiung jumped onto a boulder and stared defiantly across the gorge, the tip of his bloodied sword resting on the stone. He could see Jebe Khoja on the opposite bank, shouting orders to a squad of bowmen. Hsiung lingered one more taunting moment before jumping off the rock to safety. A dozen arrows skipped where he had stood.

Cheering had begun in the village – and with good cause. Not only had nearly two hundred enemies been trapped or killed, it would take Jebe Khoja days to find another route over the river. With luck, he might be delayed considerably longer.

Sergeant P’ao ran up. He was panting and a gash had been torn in his armour.

‘Hsiung! Sir! We have captured nearly a hundred of them! Lieutenant Jin begs to know what we should do.’

‘Kill all the Mongols except one and throw their bodies into the gorge,’ said Hsiung. ‘Offer the Chinese a chance to join us. Behead any who refuse. And see that last rope? Make sure no one cuts it.’

A single slide rope slanted down to the opposite bank. ‘Why not, sir?’ asked P’ao.

‘Use it to send the surviving Mongol back to his friends with this message:
Captain Hsiung looks forward to our next meeting
.’

Hsiung smiled as those around him chanted his name and gestured at the grim ranks of Mongols watching from the opposite hillside. He knew he had just ordered his own execution – and a conspicuously painful one – if he ever fell into Jebe Khoja’s power.