bullyxtreme Chapter 45 Glacier Land Route Part 1
Chapter 45 Glacier Land Route Part 1
March 5th, 16th year of Chongzhen's reign, at Lijin Ferry.
The Yellow River makes a bend here, its surface widening and its current becoming gentle. But at this moment, the wide river surface is covered with floating ice.
The icicles varied in size, some as large as millstones and others as small as pot lids. They tumbled and collided in the murky river water, making a chilling crackling sound.
Ten flat-bottomed cargo boats were crowded on the shore, their hulls battered by ice shards, their planks cracked, and ice shards filling the gaps.
Zheng Sen stood on the earthen slope at the ferry crossing, gazing at the official road heading west.
The official road was muddy—the rain and snow from the previous days had just stopped, and the road was covered with ruts and footprints, deep and shallow, like the scars left on the earth by a whip. On both sides of the road were withered yellow reeds, shivering in the cold wind.
Further away, there was a hazy sky and endless barren hills beneath it.
"Young master," the boat captain approached, frost clinging to his beard, "the grain has all been unloaded. Eight hundred shi, not a shi less. But..." He paused, "but do we really have to travel by land? It's 1,600 li to Tongguan!"
Zheng Sen didn't turn around: "The boat can't leave?"
"We can't go." The boatman shook his head. "Fifty miles upstream, the ice is even thicker. We're a flat-bottomed boat with a shallow draft; if we hit a big ice floe, we'll fall apart. Besides, we're going against the current; we can only go a maximum of twenty miles a day—by the time we reach Tongguan, our brothers inside will have already starved to death."
Zheng Sen remained silent.
He knew the boatman was right. From Lijin to Tongguan, it was 1,200 li along the Yellow River waterway, going upstream, and even without ice, it would take two months. By land, it was 1,600 li, but one could hire a cart and horses, and travel day and night.
"Have you hired a car yet?" he asked.
"We hired thirty large carts, each capable of carrying twenty shi (a unit of dry measure). But the drivers said that given the road conditions, we could only travel a maximum of forty li (a unit of distance) a day."
The boatman did the math. "Forty li, it will take forty days to get to Tongguan. But we only have eight hundred shi of grain. Even if we don't lose a single grain, we'll only have six hundred shi left by the time we get to Tongguan—there are tens of thousands of people there, how many days will six hundred shi of grain be enough to feed them?"
"We'll eat as much as we can each day." Zheng Sen turned around and looked at the grain sacks piled up on the open ground at the ferry crossing. The sacks were stacked into a small mountain, looking like a silent grave under the gray sky.
He recalled Zhang Huangyan's words when he left the capital: "His Majesty said that the Ming Dynasty cannot forever rely on only the Zheng family on the seas."
Now, the sea route is impassable, so we have to take the land route.
"Young Master," the deputy rushed over, "we just received a carrier pigeon—there's news from Empress Zhou in Beijing."
Zheng Sen took the bamboo tube and poured out a slip of paper. The paper was written in elegant regular script:
"Travel arrangements have been made in Jinan; you will be able to meet us there. Rest stops along the way have been arranged. Take care. Zhou."
There was no signature, but Zheng Sen knew who it was.
Empress Zhou.
The empress, whom he had only met once in Nanjing, was now in Beijing, thousands of miles away, paving the way for his small grain transport team.
He gripped the note tightly, a surge of warmth welling up inside him.
"Give the order," he announced loudly, "that the grain be packed into thirty carts and depart at 1:00 PM today. Tell the brothers to travel light, carrying only three days' worth of dry rations, and the rest of the grain. When we reach Jinan, there will be someone to meet us."
"What happened to the cotton-padded clothes and gunpowder on the ship?"
"Keep one cotton-padded coat for each person, and the rest..." Zheng Sen gritted his teeth, "seal them on the ship and leave ten people to guard them. We'll find a way to transport them when the ice melts in the spring."
"Those ten people..."
"It's voluntary," Zheng Sen said to the sailors. "Those who wish to stay will each receive twenty taels of silver. Those who don't, go with the caravan."
The order was given. The sailors were silent for a moment, then one by one they stepped forward—mostly older sailors, from Fujian, with wives and children to support. Twenty taels of silver was enough to feed a family for half a year.
In the end, twelve people remained.
Zheng Sen walked up to them and patted each of them on the shoulder: "I'll come pick you up in the spring."
An old sailor grinned, revealing his missing front tooth: "Don't worry, young master, the ship is ours."
Zheng Sen nodded emphatically.
At 1:00 PM, the convoy set off.
Thirty large carts, each with two mules and horses, with the driver sitting on the shaft, cracking his whip loudly.
Two hundred Imperial Guards followed behind the carriage—elite troops sent by Li Ruolian from Huai'an to escort them. The leader, surnamed Zhao, was a dark-faced man who spoke little but had sharp eyes.
Zheng Sen rode at the head of the column. He wasn't wearing his naval uniform; instead, he wore a cotton robe over leather armor, with a sword at his waist.
The sword was a Japanese sword given to me by my father, Zheng Zhilong. The handle was wrapped with sharkskin, and the blade was long and narrow, making it suitable for chopping.
Although he was only nineteen years old, he had gone to sea with his father at the age of fourteen and had experienced more than ten battles, large and small, in the waters of Fujian and Guangdong. This time, he was assisted by an old sailor from the Zheng family on his northward journey. At this moment, he was calm and composed, and had already begun to show the demeanor of a general.
The caravan pulled away from the ferry crossing and trudged across the muddy official road. Wheels sank into puddles, mules and horses struggled to push, the driver shouted instructions, and laborers pushed from behind. After traveling a mile, everyone was sweating profusely.
"At this speed," Commander Zhao rode up, "it would be good if we could cover twenty li before dark."
"We'll see where we end up," Zheng Sen said, looking ahead. "As long as we're heading in the right direction, we'll get there eventually."
Commander Zhao glanced at him but said nothing more.
As darkness fell, the convoy stopped at an abandoned village. The village was long abandoned, with ruins and collapsed wells. The soldiers cleared a space and set up makeshift tents. The grain carts were arranged in a circle, with their shafts facing outwards, forming a barrier.
A campfire was lit, burning dry branches gathered along the way. An iron pot sat on the fire, cooking a thin porridge—very little rice, mostly wild vegetables, such as shepherd's purse and bitter greens dug from the roadside, all mixed together and cooked, the broth turning black.
Zheng Sen ate porridge with the soldiers. The porridge was so thin that you could see your reflection in it, but he ate it very carefully, not leaving a single drop.
A wind picked up at night. The cold wind seeped in through the cracks in the broken wall, making the campfire flicker. The soldiers on night watch wrapped themselves tightly in their cotton-padded coats and patrolled the grain depot; their footsteps were particularly clear in the quiet night.
Zheng Sen couldn't sleep, so he got up to patrol. When he reached the village entrance, he saw Zhao Qianhu standing there, gazing northwest.
"Isn't General Zhao asleep?"
"I can't sleep," Zhao Qianhu said without turning around. "I'm thinking about Tongguan."
"General Zhao has been to Tongguan?"
"In the fourteenth year of the Chongzhen reign, I fought against Li Zicheng under Commander Sun," Commander Zhao said in a low voice. "Back then, Tongguan wasn't this difficult. There was food inside the pass and cannons on the city walls. Li Zicheng's soldiers were starving and skin and bones; they even had trouble climbing ladders." He paused, "Now... I don't know what it's like."
Zheng Sen remained silent. He recalled his father's words: "War is about supplies, money, and people's hearts."
"Once the food arrives, we can hold out," he said, as if trying to convince himself.
Commander Zhao glanced at him and suddenly asked, "Young Master Zheng, how old are you this year?"
"nineteen."
"Nineteen..." Commander Zhao smiled. "When I was nineteen, I was still farming in my hometown and had never seen blood." He patted the hilt of his sword. "Later, I couldn't survive, so I joined the army, killed people, and fought my way up to the rank of commander. Sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night and have nightmares when I thought about the people who died by my blade."
Zheng Sen didn't know how to respond.
"But this grain transport," Commander Zhao turned around and said seriously, "is the most reliable thing I've ever done. Killing people is to save lives, transporting grain is to save lives—it's different."
He clasped his hands in a fist salute, then turned and went on his night patrol.
Zheng Sen stood there, gazing at the sleeping soldiers illuminated by the campfire.
Their faces were covered in mud, sweat, and exhaustion, but they slept soundly.
Because I know I'm doing the right thing.
March 10th, western suburbs of Jinan Prefecture.
The convoy arrived in the western suburbs of Jinan on the evening of the fifth day.
From afar, one could see a camp set up beside the official road, with fifty brand-new carts parked in front of the camp, and more than three hundred people standing beside the carts, all dressed in short clothes and looking very energetic.
A middle-aged scholar stepped forward, cupped his hands in greeting, and asked with a hint of caution, "Are you Young Master Zheng Sen?"
"Exactly."
"My name is Zhou Xian, the manager of a branch of the Zhou family in Jinan," the scholar said in a low voice. "I have been waiting here for you, young master, on orders from the main family in Beijing."
Zheng Sen frowned almost imperceptibly. The Zhou family? Zhou Kui, the emperor's father-in-law who was fined and confined by His Majesty?
Zhou Xian seemed to sense his doubt, took half a step forward, and lowered his voice even further: "Master... Although Lord Zhou Kui is being punished in the capital, upon hearing of the crisis at Tongguan, he specially sent a secret letter to Shandong: 'With the nation in peril, I dare not spare my personal wealth. All the people and carts that can be mobilized in the clan will be used to help General Zheng transport grain.'"
"This is not atonement, but fulfilling the duty of a subject." He paused, then added, "I heard that Her Majesty the Empress also wrote a personal letter to my family, saying, 'If Tongguan falls, Jiangnan will be in turmoil. Under a collapsed nest, how can any egg remain intact?'"