Chapter Seven: The Capture of Daishan Alive

A piercing, continuous whistling split the night as six hundred household troops, concealed in the sorghum fields by the roadside, launched their assault in unison. Sharp crossbow bolts wove a dense web, descending upon the mounted Jurchen cavalrymen who, bearing torches aloft, made perfect targets—there was not a single blind spot in their formation. In a matter of moments, seventy or eighty of the Jurchen horsemen cried out in agony and fell from their saddles.

“Assassins!”
“Protect the master!”
“Shield the master and charge forward!”

The surviving Jurchen cavalrymen quickly regained their senses, spurred their horses, and formed a protective circle around Dai Shan, forcing their way ahead. Wang Pu, however, was determined not to let them escape. He sprang from the sorghum, brandishing his broadsword and shouting, “Big Beard, take two hundred brothers to storm the manor! The rest, with me—don’t let a single Jurchen escape! Kill them all!”

“Slay every last Jurchen! Leave none alive! Kill! Kill! Kill!” The six hundred household troops charged out, ferocious as a pack of starving wolves descending upon sheep. Yet the Jurchen cavalry within the circle were no lambs. Though more than half had been felled in the ambush, the remaining thirty or so were battle-hardened veterans, skilled in both arms and archery.

Before they could even close the distance, several household troops had already fallen to the Jurchens’ arrows. After suffering more than a dozen casualties, the household troops finally reached their foes, and brutal hand-to-hand combat erupted. Though the Jurchen cavalry were formidable, they could not overcome sheer numbers. After an intense half-hour struggle, the household troops finished off the remaining Jurchens and captured Dai Shan alive.

Surveying the bodies of his men strewn across the field, Wang Pu could not help but draw a sharp breath. Six hundred men, launching a surprise attack on just over a hundred Jurchen cavalry—after felling seventy or eighty with the initial volley, it had still cost them dozens of lives to overcome the last thirty.

[In the early days, the Eight Banner troops, poorly equipped, relied mainly on sheer courage; their combat effectiveness was not particularly impressive. But by the latter years of Hong Taiji’s reign, with improved arms and repeated victories, their confidence and battle experience had soared. At this time, the Eight Banners had reached their zenith, and their fighting power was not to be underestimated.]

Fortunately, Wang Pu had been cautious. Had he led his six hundred men in a direct daylight assault, it would have devolved into a head-on clash, and with the formidable strength of the Jurchen cavalry, the outcome would have been far from certain. And these household troops were the Ming’s most elite; ordinary Ming soldiers would have fared even worse against the Jurchens.

Two household troops brought Dai Shan before Wang Pu, asking, “General, shall we cut down this old slave now?”

“Wait.” Wang Pu waved them off, calmly sizing up Dai Shan. “Judging by his attire, this man must be a noble among the Jurchens. Keep him alive.”

“Hmph.” Dai Shan snorted and, to their surprise, spoke in Mandarin: “I, this king, have never changed my name nor my ancestry. I am Aisin Gioro Dai Shan, Prince Li of the Great Qing.”

“Dai Shan? You are Dai Shan?” Wang Pu was stunned for a moment, then broke into laughter. “Ha! Heaven itself assists me!”

Dai Shan frowned and asked, “Why do you laugh? Who are you?”

Suppressing his laughter, Wang Pu replied, “I am Wang Pu, General-in-Chief of Datong under the Great Ming, acting under the orders of Lord Hong, Commander-in-Chief of Jiliao, leading an elite brigade to strike at your Jurchen den—Shengjing.”

Dai Shan sneered, then laughed aloud, before replying disdainfully, “Shengjing is guarded by thirty thousand elite Qing troops. You think this rabble can tug at a tiger’s whiskers? You vastly overestimate yourself. Young man, I advise you to give up this foolish idea.”

“Ha! Whether I overestimate myself, Your Highness will soon see.” With that, Wang Pu waved his arm and barked, “Leave two hundred men to clear the battlefield; burn our fallen brothers and take their ashes with us. Give the Jurchens each an extra blade to be sure none survive, then strip them of their clothes and armor. The rest, take the wounded back to the manor for treatment.”

By now, Big Beard had already led two hundred men into the manor. The three hundred-odd Jurchens inside were old, weak, sick, or crippled and were slaughtered without effort. Over seven hundred “Ahas” remained—Han Chinese. When they saw Ming soldiers storming the manor, elation burst across their faces. Some, emboldened, seized hoes and joined in the slaughter.

In less than half an hour, Big Beard had seized full control of the estate. Even the dozen or so Jurchen children hiding in the cellar were dragged out and beaten to death by the Han laborers, who, having suffered long under Jurchen abuse, now seized the chance for brutal revenge—no less savage than their former masters.

So inflamed were their passions that the Han nearly set the entire manor ablaze. In the end, Wang Pu himself had to step in, spinning a grand lie to calm the frenzied Han.

“Everyone, do not be agitated—listen to me. I bring you tremendous news: the Jurchen army has already been defeated by our Ming forces beneath the walls of Songshan. Two hundred thousand Jurchen troops have been utterly destroyed, and the chieftain, Hong Taiji, has perished! Now, Lord Hong Chengchou, Commander-in-Chief of Jiliao, leads three hundred thousand men and has reached Xiping Fort. Soon, he will cross the Liao River to attack Shengjing. Very soon, you all will be able to return home—you will never again be beasts of burden for the Jurchens…”

A cheer erupted from the Han peasants in the courtyard. Only when their excitement gradually subsided did Wang Pu continue, “Our mission is to deceive the guards and open Shengjing’s gates, clearing the way for the main army. Absolute secrecy is essential. I ask that you all remain here quietly for a few days—no one must leave without permission. If word of our presence leaks and the city is alerted, you will become criminals of the Ming.”

Someone in the crowd responded, “General, rest assured, we will fully support the imperial army’s cause!”

“Good,” Wang Pu nodded. “Now, please, all return to your homes and prepare food. Our soldiers have not eaten a hot meal in days. If anyone knows medicine, please come forward to help treat our wounded.”

“I have some knowledge of medicine,” an elderly but sturdy man stepped out with a young fellow. Approaching Wang Pu, he said, “General, I have practiced medicine for decades. If you trust me, allow me to tend your soldiers. Common wounds and arrow injuries are nothing I cannot handle.”

“Splendid!” Wang Pu exclaimed. “May I know your name, sir?”

“I am Li Changfu,” the old man replied, pulling the youth forward. “This is my grandson, Li Bao. General, you may call him Little Leopard. Little Leopard, come greet the general.”

The young man knelt and bowed deeply. “Little Leopard pays his respects to the General.”

“No need for such formality,” Wang Pu hurriedly helped him up, then turned to Big Beard. “Big Beard, quickly take Master Li to see to our wounded.”

“Right away.” The burly man saluted respectfully. “Sir, this way, please.”