sovbooks Chapter 41: The Third Line is in Crisis
Chapter 41: The Third Line is in Crisis
Zhao Da suddenly stepped forward and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Fellow men! Lord Li pays us our wages directly, three taels a month! Wang Si and his gang take a cut from our wages, only giving us one and a half taels a year! They're trying to cut off our livelihood!"
Whispers arose from the crowd.
"I, Zhao Da, started working on the boat at six years old. I'm fifty-two this year, and I've been working on the canal for forty-six years!"
Tears streamed down Zhao Da's face. "Forty-six years, how much of my hard-earned money has been siphoned off by the foreman? My mother died of illness, and I had no money to buy medicine; my son fell into the river and drowned, and the foreman said, 'His life is cheap, pay me two taels'—two taels!"
He knelt down with a thud and kowtowed to the canal workers: "Today, Lord Li has stood up for us. If we still don't wake up, how can we face our ancestors?!"
Silence. A long silence.
Then, the first person stepped forward, head down, and walked to the left.
The second, the third… like a burst dam, the crowd began to move. Most of the canal workers staggered to the left. Only about a hundred people remained standing, mostly Wang Si's cronies.
Li Ruolian nodded and waved.
The Beijing garrison soldiers stepped forward, surrounded the hundred or so men, disarmed them, and bound them.
Then, he walked up to Wang Si and pulled the rag out of his mouth.
"Li Ruolian! You dare kill me?!" Wang Si roared. "My uncle is a vice minister in Nanjing! I..."
A flash of light.
Wang Si's head flew up, tracing an arc in the air before landing with a splash in the canal. Blood splattered everywhere, spreading across the bluestone slabs like a strange flower.
Li Ruolian sheathed his sword, blood dripping from the tip. He looked at the remaining six gang leaders: "Who else?"
No one dared to speak out.
"cut."
Six heads fell to the ground.
Li Ruolian turned to all the canal workers and said, "From today onwards, the Huai'an canal transport will be conducted according to the new regulations. Wages will be paid directly and settled monthly. Anyone found extorting or withholding wages will be executed."
The canal workers knelt down in unison.
Li Ruolian, however, looked south, towards Yangzhou. A guard approached and whispered, "Three of Wang Si's trusted men escaped last night and headed for Yangzhou."
"Understood." Li Ruolian wiped her sword clean and sheathed it. "Issue an order for martial law in Huai'an for three days. Also, send a message to Lord Li Jizhen in Nanjing—it's time to make a move in Yangzhou."
February 12th, Dagukou, Tianjin.
Zheng Sen's fleet finally reached the shore. The four ships, their hulls covered in ice, resembled four wounded giants.
Zheng Zhibao was already waiting at the dock. When he saw his nephew disembark, he hugged him tightly, exclaiming, "Good lad! It's good that you're back alive!"
"Third Uncle," Zheng Sen pushed him away and asked urgently, "Is there any news from Tongguan?"
"Yes." Zheng Zhibao's face darkened. "It arrived yesterday via an urgent 800-li courier service. Tongguan... has been without food for twelve days. General Zhou Yuji succumbed to his wounds last night..."
Zheng Sen was struck dumb, and staggered.
"Who is in command of the army now?"
"Deputy General Gao Jie. But the morale of the troops... is about to collapse."
Zheng Sen looked towards the dock. There were piles of supplies unloaded from the ship: 1,500 cotton-padded coats, 20 barrels of gunpowder, and only 800 shi of grain.
"Not enough." He gritted his teeth. "Tens of thousands of people at Tongguan, eight hundred shi of grain—how many days will that be enough?"
"Transporting by land will also incur losses," Zheng Zhibao sighed. "Moreover, the Yellow River is flooded, and boats cannot enter. It would take at least a month to travel by land from Lijin to Tongguan, a distance of 1,600 li—by then, Tongguan would be long gone."
Zheng Sen remained silent. He walked to the pile of grain and grabbed a handful of rice. The grains were cold and rough in his palm.
He recalled the emaciated soldiers atop Tongguan Pass. He remembered Zhou Yuji's last letter: "Your Majesty, I...have done my best."
"Third Uncle," he suddenly turned around, "change my boat."
"What?"
"Change to an inland river barge, a flat-bottomed one with a shallow draft," Zheng Sen said rapidly. "I'm going to travel along the Yellow River, upstream. I'll go as far as I can, until I can't go any further, then we'll go ashore and transport the goods by land."
Zheng Zhibao's eyes widened: "Are you crazy?! The ice on the Yellow River this season is sharper than knives! Going against the current? Even a grain transport boat can barely travel thirty miles a day!"
"Then let's go thirty li." Zheng Sen stared at him. "For every li we go, we'll have more food. Every day we go, our brothers at Tongguan will live one more day."
"But you..."
"His Majesty has ordered me to transport grain," Zheng Sen interrupted him, his eyes burning with rage, "As long as the grain is there, I am here. When the grain runs out, I die."
Zheng Zhibao looked at his nephew. The nineteen-year-old boy still had a childish face, but his eyes were already as resolute as an old sailor's. He remembered his elder brother Zheng Zhilong's words: "This kid is like me when I was young—no, he has more guts than me."
"Alright." Zheng Zhibao nodded emphatically. "I'll find you a boat and the best canal workers. But Zheng Sen—"
He pressed down on his nephew's shoulder: "Come back alive. The future of the Zheng family rests on your shoulders."
Zheng Sen laughed, a somewhat bitter laugh: "The future of the Zheng family lies at sea, and the future of the Ming Dynasty lies on land. Third Uncle, wait for me to return, and together we will... reclaim our sea power."
That afternoon, ten flat-bottomed grain barges were loaded with grain at the Tianjin dock. Grain bags were carried onto the ships, while cotton-padded clothing and gunpowder were packed into different hold.
Zheng Sen stood at the bow of the lead boat, gazing at the westward-flowing Yellow River. Ice floes surged on the river's surface, and sunlight shone on them, refracting a blinding light.
"Weigh anchor," he said.
The fleet slowly left the shore and sailed into the Yellow River estuary.
Ice crystals crashed against the hull, making a cracking sound like countless teeth gnawing at it.
Zheng Sen gripped the "Beiyang Hydrographic Map" tightly; the small vermilion annotations on the edge of the map were now exceptionally clear:
"There is a lot of floating ice in this sea area during winter and spring, so please be careful when sailing."
He smiled and carefully put the drawing away from his body.
Be cautious? It's too late.
The brothers at Tongguan cannot wait for Shenzhi.
February 15th, Lijin Ferry.
The fleet was completely trapped by ice floes and could not move an inch. Scouts reported that the ice was even more severe thirty miles upstream.
Zheng Sen ordered: Unload the grain ashore and transport it by land.
A thousand laborers and fifty carts began their long journey through rain and snow. The grain sacks bent the carrying poles, and the cart wheels sank into the mud; they could only travel forty li (about 20 kilometers) each day.
But the grain was heading west.
Inch by inch, toward Tongguan.
Huai'an: The canal transport has resumed, but three of Wang Si's remaining associates fled to Yangzhou and secretly met with salt merchant Wang Youcai on a painted boat on the Slender West Lake.
A map was spread out on the table—the locations of the Yangzhou canal boat berths and salt warehouses were all marked in red.
Jianmen Pass: Qin Yiming risked his life to cross Zhang Xianzhong's defense line.
He changed his clothes, disguised himself as a woodcutter, and traveled by night and hid during the day. On the third day at dawn, he was discovered by a patrol team. During the fight, he was hit by three arrows, but he still managed to steal a horse and break through the encirclement, eventually reaching Kuizhou.
After reading the blood-written letter, Zuo Menggeng sneered, "Qin Liangyu wants to die for her country? Fine, after she dies, this general will go and 'reclaim' Jianmen." He threw the blood-written letter aside.
The Bohai Sea is icy cold: Zheng Sen stands at the Lijin ferry crossing, gazing westward along the land route. His personal guard asks, "Young Master, are we really going to reach Tongguan?"
Zheng Sen did not answer. He looked southwest, towards Jianmen Pass; then northwest, towards Tong Pass.
Finally, he looked south, towards Nanjing.
"Your Majesty," he said softly, "I...have done my best."
The rain and snow intensified, and the world became a vast expanse of white.
In the early spring of the sixteenth year of the Chongzhen Emperor's reign, the three critical lines were stretched to their limit.