Chapter Seventeen: Dividing the Forces

Sui Bing had no objections, his gaze filled with admiration as he looked at Yang Xiaolin. “Chief, how is it that you know so much about all these foreign contraptions?” Yang Xiaolin chuckled. Truth be told, he’d never served as an artilleryman, but those cannons were the oldest Russian infantry guns—nothing too complicated. He was certain he could at least fire the shells; as for accuracy, that was another matter.

Several of the men rolled the two cannons over. Yang Xiaolin loaded them himself, sighted them himself, and fired them himself. Of course, all the while, he was instructing the brothers at his side on how to operate the guns. In the near future, he was convinced, Grumble Mountain would boast its own artillery unit.

A thunderous boom rang out. Yang Xiaolin had aimed at the Qing army’s formation as they massed for an attack, but the shell exploded far short of the soldiers, leaving him somewhat embarrassed. “Ah, missed. Never mind, bring me another shell!”

Before he could finish, he noticed that, though the shot had gone wide, its effect was immediate and dramatic. The assembled Qing soldiers scattered in panic after the blast. No matter how Zhao Yansun shouted and cursed, the Qing troops refused to regroup.

Yang Xiaolin suddenly found himself without a target and lost interest. Since the Qing soldiers had fled, there was no point shooting further. He simply gave the order, “Bring over all the shells. Each brother gets a turn to fire. When we’re done, blow the cannons up. It’s time to move—let’s catch up with Big Blade Jin and the others.”

Sui Bing hesitated, reluctant. “Chief, these are fine weapons! We suffered badly at their hands when fighting the Russians. Are you really willing to blow them up?”

Yang Xiaolin shook his head. “I know their worth, but first, we can’t use them well yet. Second, we can’t take them with us. Better to destroy them than leave them for the Qing troops.”

There were barely more than a dozen shells. The bandits fired them off haphazardly, not a single shot on target. Yang Xiaolin had no intention of drilling them for accuracy—just getting the shells fired was enough. Expectations couldn’t be too high.

Even so, the repeated thunder of a dozen explosions threw the Qing soldiers into utter confusion. Yang Xiaolin was certain that if even one shell had landed amidst them, they would have broken completely, and he might have pulled off a miracle—forty defeating two thousand.

But the miracle did not come to pass. Zhao Yansun was still desperately trying to hold his ranks together, his original loyal men now proving crucial. Once the cannon fire ceased, he managed to reorganize his men for another assault. But on the mountain, Yang Xiaolin had already stuffed grenades down the barrels of the two small cannons, set them to blow, and was on his way.

It was more than an hour after their retreat through the back hills that Zhao Yansun’s troops, trembling with fear, finally entered the stronghold—only to find it utterly deserted, not so much as a hunting dog left behind.

The defeat in this first engagement intensified the dread Zhao Yansun had long harbored. He sensed, vaguely, that this campaign to suppress the bandits might bring consequences far beyond his expectations.

Meanwhile, Magistrate Zhang knew nothing of what had transpired. He still placed his hopes in Zhao Yansun. When the Russian Expeditionary Army’s commander in Shengjing heard that one of his camps had been wiped out, his first suspicion fell on the Japanese. He truly believed it was Japanese soldiers disguised as bandits. Had Magistrate Zhang been even a little vague in his report, the Russians would surely have held the Japanese responsible.

But Magistrate Zhang was oblivious to this opportunity. Ruthless and cunning when dealing with commoners, before foreign dignitaries he told the whole truth, even collecting evidence with care, afraid the foreigners might not believe him.

The Russians, upon seeing the evidence, were incensed. They simply couldn’t accept that a whole camp had been overrun by Chinese bandits. Enraged, they seized upon the incident to press their case: unless the Qing court resolved the matter to their satisfaction, Russian troops would remain in western Liaoning indefinitely and might even return to Shengjing and Fengtian.

The Boxer Protocol was clear: the Qing government was obliged to eliminate all anti-foreign elements. There was no disputing this, and General Zeng Qi of Shengjing could only grovel and apologize, insisting that Qing troops were already besieging Grumble Mountain and promising that the murderers of Russian soldiers would be brought to justice, with compensation paid to the families of the Russians slain at Gan Zi Tun.

After some discussion, the Russians decided to suspend negotiations over troop withdrawal until the culprits were apprehended. Furthermore, for every Russian soldier killed at Gan Zi Tun, the Qing government was to pay two thousand taels of silver—a total of a million taels for five hundred men. Zeng Qi was stunned, mouth agape, at a loss as to how he would report this to the Empress Dowager.

The Russians also demanded that Yang Xiaolin be captured alive and handed over to them. Whether or not he was caught now directly concerned not just the magistrate’s career but even his very life.

Yang Xiaolin soon caught up with Big Blade Jin’s group. On seeing him, Big Blade Jin asked with concern, “Did everyone get out?”

Yang Xiaolin smiled but said nothing. Sui Bing, unable to contain himself, blurted out, “No need to run! We strolled right out of the stronghold, the Qing soldiers didn’t dare pursue. If we weren’t worried you’d leave without us, we wouldn’t have hurried at all.”

Biaozi sidled over. “You actually fought the Qing soldiers?”

“Of course! Knocked down a good few hundred with a salvo!”

Yang Xiaolin shot Sui Bing a glare. “Don’t exaggerate!”

Then his gaze swept over the ragged, disordered band. “Brother Jin, we did clash with the Qing soldiers. It was a minor victory, at most two hundred taken out.”

Big Blade Jin’s eyes widened at the claim, suspicion in his gaze. But Yang Xiaolin’s calm demeanor and the consistent stories from his men left him with no choice but to believe it. He looked at Yang Xiaolin with genuine admiration and raised his thumb. “Chief Yang, I’m impressed! Truly impressed!”

Yang Xiaolin only smiled, then asked, “Where’s Brother Gu?”

Gu Tianming emerged from the middle of the group, still carrying the grievously wounded Liu Xianhe on his back. Carrying a man through the mountains was no small feat; Gu’s face was slick with sweat. Still, on hearing of Yang Xiaolin’s victory, he was delighted.

At Yang Xiaolin’s call, Gu Tianming hurried over, panting. “Chief, do you need something?”

In truth, Yang Xiaolin had no particular business. He knew Gu Tianming and Big Blade Jin didn’t get along, and worried that, in his absence, Jin might cause him trouble. The true danger was not the enemy ahead, but discord within their own ranks. Perhaps it would be best to separate the two for a time.

With this in mind, Yang Xiaolin stepped forward to check Liu Xianhe’s injuries. Because of the journey, his wounds had reopened; his clothes were soaked in blood. Gu Tianming had applied some herbal remedy, but whether he would survive was a matter of luck.

Such was the life of a bandit, their fate at the mercy of the heavens. They hadn’t left Liu Xianhe behind only for the sake of Liu Yikun. Some men, one wouldn’t spare a glance for when alive, yet for others, even in death, respect remained.

Yang Xiaolin felt Liu Xianhe’s forehead—burning hot, surely feverish.

Gu Tianming, still breathing heavily, said, “Chief Yang, this can’t go on. We need to find a place for Xianhe to recover. He can’t keep running with us like this.”

Yang Xiaolin nodded. “Not only must we settle him, we need to find him a doctor—a proper physician.”

Gu Tianming was troubled. “There aren’t any doctors in the Changbai Mountains, just folk remedies for injuries.”

“Folk remedies won’t save Xianhe now!”

Yang Xiaolin’s own memories and those of the original Yang chief mingled in his mind. Liu Yikun had shown great kindness to Yang Xiaolin, and he couldn’t just let Liu Xianhe die. Besides, the essence of Grandfather’s guerrilla tactics could be summed up in two words: move and strike. Movement without striking was meaningless. He would have to take a portion of the men to seek opportunities to attack the enemy.