Chapter 81: Sworn Never to Save

The sun slanted westward as Zhang Xiong sat outside the city, hands tucked into his sleeves, growing more impatient by the minute. He glanced up at the shifting sunlight and, as the commander of the Yan’an Garrison, shuffled half a step deeper into the shade beneath the trees. Since sunrise, he had been locked in this slow battle with the sun—each time the shadow crept half a step, he matched it.

“Why is there still no word? That starving lot can’t have started feasting inside the city, can they? Commander Feng, go and find out!” As he spoke of food, Zhang’s own stomach rumbled traitorously.

The prefectural city maintained a strict system for raising alarms. The moment Cao Yao seized the seal at Shunyang Gate, the great bronze bell, cast in the Yongle era, was rung within the city. The garrison troops stationed on Mount Jialing, besieging the southern gate, began to assemble. Zhang Xiong gathered his three hundred men and hurried toward Shunyang Gate.

Before their previous campaign, the Yan’an Garrison had devised a contingency plan, fearing that if Li Bei and his men failed to thoroughly defeat their foes, it might provoke Wang Jiayin to retaliate against Yan’an Prefecture. If a bandit raid struck, Zhang’s men could never hold the walls at the southern gate, so he marched swiftly, hoping to enter the city before the outlaws could complete their encirclement.

They had not gone far when they encountered a group of city guards who had escaped outside the walls by scaling down ropes. These men said that hungry refugees had stormed the gate and entered the city. If that was the case, then all was well.

Zhang Xiong relaxed, even a little pleased. He sent men back to the encampment to call out another three hundred troops, then led his entire force along the riverbank toward the outer gate of Shunyang. Upon reaching the city gate, he sat down, awaiting the refugees to emerge, confident that patience would serve him better than rashness.

He knew there was grain in the city, and that the refugees had come for it. But that grain would never be given to him; fighting inside the city would only benefit others. However, if the refugees tried to carry the grain out and he could route them, the outcome would be quite different.

His plan was not unlike Liu Chengzong’s, who had snatched supplies from the White Hawk’s encampment—only these starving people were much slower in their plundering.

Now it was nearly afternoon, and still the refugees showed no sign of leaving the city. Zhang Xiong’s patience was wearing thin, and he again sent men to the city wall to inquire.

Cao Yao, after all, was short-handed and couldn’t possibly clear the entire city wall of defenders; he could barely hold the southern gate tower. The city guards, knowing he was formidable, either went down to hinder the refugees or kept their distance atop the wall, forming a tacit understanding with Cao Yao’s group. In truth, if Cao Yao had called them down to eat, most of the city guards would likely have surrendered then and there.

Not long after, Commander Feng staggered back, helmet askew, and reported, “General, the guards say the refugees looted the grain store, then went to the reserve granary. They found nothing there, so now they’ve forced open the official granary.”

The “reserve granary” was the Ming term for a relief store, meant for emergency famine relief. Zhang Xiong had expected that it would be empty. He quickly asked, “But the official granary has grain, doesn’t it?”

Commander Feng nodded. “It should. The refugees are searching for carts and pack animals in the city—must be to carry the grain.”

Zhang Xiong finally relaxed. Guarding the city was his duty, but for the sake of grain, he could abandon that responsibility. If he lost his post and still failed to seize the grain, that would be a true loss.

He muttered to himself, “As long as there’s grain, that’s all that matters... Pass the order—everyone gets half a flatbread.”

The flatbread was thin; half a piece was meager. But the bannermen were overjoyed—their general was uncommonly generous today. That morning, he had already given them half a flatbread each. Now, not even mealtime, they’d have another half. Did that mean they might get another half come evening? That would be three days’ worth of grain in one day!

The morale of the troops surged.

As the men ate, Zhang Xiong paced among them, raising his voice to paint a hopeful vision: “Brothers, I only allow each of you three taels of flour a day—not out of stinginess, but because there’s simply no more grain. My own pay is fifteen stones a month, yet I only eat a jin a day, your sisters-in-law half a jin, and even my little ones, who do no work, get only three taels. The rest of my pay goes into your rations.”

He raised his arm, gesturing northeast. “Did Scholar Liu of Black Dragon Mountain provoke me? Or that old pedant Chen from Old Lump Hill? Why would I harm them? I have no choice—you need to eat, and they’re easy prey. The county gave us thirty stones of grain, just enough for you all to eat for a month. Now, these refugees have turned bandit, seizing the official granary. There are five hundred stones of rice in there. Those refugees are fools. That grain was meant for them, but every day, I went to the authorities for it and got nothing—just a bowl of porridge for them each day. Now, if they want to steal it, good. Once the grain is out, we’ll seize it from them!”

“At the very least, we’ll take three hundred stones as war spoils for the higher-ups. Anything extra, I’ll let you keep, and from then on, every two days you’ll get a jin to eat—how about that?”

The bannermen cheered and applauded.

Zhang Xiong was quite pleased with their reaction. “Some of you have followed me from the beginning; some of you are former outlaws who’ve come back to the fold. I can’t promise you’ll be full, but I swear you’ll have something to eat. I’d give my own head to make sure you don’t starve. Still, remember this: show no mercy when you kill; they’re pitiable refugees, but you’re not much better off. Grain is scarce, and while the refugees are here, the magistrate’s lot won’t even see us—they only care about saving refugees and expect us to risk our lives. When those people come out, cut down every last one you see. If you’re quick, follow me to the East Gate and kill anyone else you find there!”

Zhang Xiong had long harbored the desire to slaughter the refugees. He had even discussed it with officials at the magistrate’s office. This was no season of plenty; the people everywhere were exhausted, and the court had no resources for famine relief.

The peasants’ fields were parched and barren, and so were the military farms. The city’s grain stores were limited; that much was obvious.

What does it mean for the world to follow its natural course? It means this land can no longer sustain so many people; when it can’t, the population inevitably declines—by all manner of calamity—until the land can again support those who remain, and then the disasters cease.

In Zhang Xiong’s eyes, the magistrate’s relief efforts were a futile struggle against fate. If you have the power to defy heaven and save lives, by all means, do so. But if you don’t, then for each refugee you save, a regular citizen will starve. And by the hierarchy of things, it might take two dead bannermen before a townsman dies of hunger.

Besides, Zhang Xiong believed that being killed outright was a more merciful fate than slowly starving to death.

After their meal, they checked the city’s condition once more. The scene inside had again changed. The guards on the wall reported that the refugees had opened the official granary, and then the county storehouse too, retrieving weapons and war carts to transport the grain. They used spears as poles, pushed the carts, and hauled stones of rice from the granary toward the northwest, vanishing from Zhang Xiong’s sight.

Realizing trouble, Zhang Xiong hurriedly rallied his men. “Quickly! They’re heading for the North Gate—we must catch up before Chief Wu gets to them!”

The garrison outside the North Gate was Wu’s stronghold, though his men had been so badly routed that barely a hundred remained. Zhang Xiong did not believe the refugees could overcome even a hundred bannermen.

His troops marched briskly. As they crossed the riverbank, the din of battle reached their ears—shouts and the clash of arms. Outside the city gate, two forces were already locked in fierce combat, and the outnumbered bannermen seemed to be faltering, attempting to shift the line toward Zhang Xiong’s direction.

Commander Feng stepped forward. “General, shouldn’t we go and help them?”

“No. Leave them. If they die, all the grain will be ours.”