China by Edward Rutherfurd (historical books to read TXT) 📕

“It’s the warrior spirit in our blood,” said Guanji proudly.

“You’ve had too much education. Rots the brain. Keep it simple.”

“I’m not sure, sir.”

“Feet! In any city, more than half the Han women have got bound feet. They can only hobble about. Manchu women don’t bind their feet. So they move ten times as fast.”

“You’re right, sir,” Guanji acknowledged. “I’m a fool.”

“They won’t be able to stop them, you know. It’ll be a bloody business down there. First thing they’ll do is kill every civilian they find—men, women, and children. Spreads terror. Then they’ll tell the rest: ‘Join us or be massacred.’ Ever seen anything like that?”

“Once, at Zhapu, when I was a little boy. I’m afraid thousands of people are going to die.”

“Not thousands. Tens of thousands. Think about it. There must be well over half a million people crowded into this city. Say they kill only one in ten. That’s fifty thousand. It’s not the open battles where most of the lives are lost. It’s in the cities.”

“Are we going to help them?”

“The fools at the council wanted me to. I managed to hold ’em off.”

“You don’t think we should, sir?”

“I’ve got four hundred riflemen. What’s their best terrain?”

“Open field of fire, sir. From behind cover, if possible.”

“And what do you see down there? An anthill. House-to-house fighting. The worst kind of battle there is. I could lose half my men in a morning. The local people will do better sneaking up on them, because they know every nook and cranny of the place.” He smiled grimly. “Let the Manchu women slit the Taiping throats at night.”

Guanji pondered. “If we made a sudden sally out of the garrison gate, we could hit those Taiping in front of us, on the open ground, and then retreat back inside the garrison.”

“We could. There may not be much point.”

“You don’t think they mean to attack the garrison, sir?”

“When General Li shows you his men, it’s for a reason. You have to ask, why does he do it? What does he want me to think? What does he want me to do? Yesterday he showed us his men threatening the garrison. Then he attacked the other end of the town. His men are still outside the garrison. All that tells you is that he wants us to think they’ll attack it.”

“Do you have an idea what his game really is, sir?”

The Mongolian grunted, took some more snuff, and didn’t reply.

But even Genghis couldn’t keep his men out of a street fight that day. At noon, he was overruled. By that time the southern part of Hangzhou was under Taiping control, and the rebels were feeling their way northward. “What would the emperor say if we do nothing?” the gathered commanders asked themselves. A show of force was called for. At the very least, the rebels must be stopped before they reached the prefect’s yamen and the Manchu garrison.

About a thousand men, Manchu bannermen of the Hangzhou garrison and the four hundred rifles from Zhapu, were ordered forward. The Mongolian drew his men up in a long line on the space in front of the yamen, where he also erected a stout barricade, but he was obliged to sacrifice a company of fifty men to form one of the columns that were to march into the narrow streets of the city to probe and engage the enemy.

“You command them,” he ordered Guanji.

“Yes, sir,” Guanji replied.

—

As he led his men southward down the long street, Guanji assumed he was probably going to die. He imagined the Mongolian thought so, too. He felt no resentment. Genghis was doing his job.

And to his own surprise he found that, at this moment, he had only one desire himself. To do the same. His job. As he focused on the present necessity, his childhood dreams of bringing honor to his clan with a great career faded into the background. I should like, he thought, to perform just one professional action before I die. That would be enough. One good performance.

With this in mind, he led his men forward.

There were only a few people in the streets. He questioned them as he passed. Any sign of Taiping? Not yet. Was he going to fight them? he was asked. And when he said yes, he was met with smiles and encouragement.

After a quarter of a mile, the street veered left in front of a little temple, then resumed its path southward again. There were fewer people now. Then the street reached a small open square into which three other streets, all from the south, debouched. Guanji raised his hand for his troops to stop.

The square was silent, empty. Except for one figure. On the opposite side, a rope was hanging from the wooden balcony of one of the houses. At the end of the rope was a dead militiaman. His body was slowly swaying in the wind. Were his executioners concealed in the houses in the square? Impossible to tell.

He listened attentively. From a street at the far corner of the square he could hear sounds of shouting, then the beat of a drum, distant, but slowly getting closer. He turned to the sergeant.

“Take a dozen men, break into the houses, and grab anything you can to make a barricade. And send a scout across the square to see who’s coming.”

The position was excellent. If he placed his barricade across the end of the street here, his men would have a clear view of the whole square. He could also retreat up the street the way he came.

The barricade was soon built. Tables, chairs, benches, chests, wooden screens—good cover for his men, tough for any assailant to climb over.

“I found one old woman, sir,” the sergeant reported. “The Taiping were here. Killed a few people before they moved on. But they said they’d be occupying the place and told all the people to get out in the meantime. The old woman says