Wind Rises in North America 1625

Chapter 487 Battle of Liaoyang (Part 3)
Ortai leaned over the horse's neck, the roar of sixty warhorses thundering in his ears.

His old injury in his left leg throbbed with pain as the horse jolted, but the pain only made him more alert.

Three hundred paces ahead on the snow-covered plain, the Ming cavalry were haphazardly forming ranks, clearly not expecting to be ambushed by the Qing army.

"Divide into three teams!" Ortai shouted, raising his horsebow. "Erhe on the left wing, Centai on the right wing!"

The cavalry formation split like the outstretched wings of an eagle, instantly transforming into three swift arrows that hurtled towards the distant Ming cavalry.

Ortai personally led thirty cavalrymen straight into the center of the enemy formation, and when they were within a hundred paces, they suddenly turned to the right.

This Manchu general, who had a limp, displayed amazing horsemanship, completing a sharp turn at an almost 45-degree angle, the frozen mud exploding beneath his hooves.

"Fire arrows!"

Just as the thirty heavy arrows left the bowstring, Irkh's troops on the left flank swept past from the other side.

Arrows rained down on the Ming army ranks, and seven or eight men immediately fell from their horses.

A Ming army captain clutched his throat, which had been pierced by a bullet, and the blood spurting from between his fingers drew eerie arcs on the snow.

"rush!"

Ortai put away his bow and drew a three-foot-long dagger from beside his saddle.

He braced his lame leg firmly in the stirrup, charging forward almost standing on the horse's back.

The first Ming cavalryman to come forward brandished his saber and slashed at him, but he dodged to the side and then swung his saber back.

The blade jammed against his collarbone in an instant. He used the momentum of the horse to twist it hard, and the feeling of bone shattering came through the hilt of the knife.

"Master, be careful!" came a warning from an armored rider on the right.

Ortai instinctively ducked, and a spear grazed the back of his neck, scraping against his armor with a harsh sound.

He suddenly swung his knife and stabbed the attacker in the heart.

Unfortunately, the blade got stuck again, and I couldn't pull it out after trying.

He simply loosened his grip on the hilt of his sword, then pulled out an iron mace from his saddlebag and, using the momentum of his horse, smashed it at the oncoming Ming army warhorse.

As blood splattered, the warhorse reared up with a mournful cry, throwing the Ming soldier knight on its back two zhang away.

The battle was one-sided from the start.

In just one encounter, the Ming army had lost more than thirty cavalrymen, and the rest began to scatter.

The Qing army suffered only eight casualties, a result that brought a sinister smile to Ortai's face.

If they launch another attack, these two hundred Ming cavalrymen will likely be routed.

"Chase after them! Don't let them..."

Ortai's roar came to an abrupt halt.

He heard a muffled thud from his right rear, followed by the cracking sound of his armor being pierced.

Startled, he turned around and saw an armored rider fall from his horse like a piece of wood.

This armored rider, who also had a problem with his left leg, had a small, thumb-sized hole in his back, from which blood was gushing out.

"Southwest!" Erhe shouted, his voice trembling slightly. "Those in black uniforms!"

No sooner had he finished speaking than several popping sounds, like popping beans, were heard.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Blood gushed from the chests of the two armored cavalrymen beside Erhe at the same time, the iron plates inside their cotton armor pierced through by lead bullets as if they were made of paper.

He looked in the direction of the gunshot.

On a small earthen mound about 120 paces away, five oddly dressed cavalrymen were pointing muskets at them from a distance.

They were not wearing the traditional uniforms of the Ming army, but rather dark blue woolen short jackets, with sharp eyes peeking out from under their wide-brimmed hats.

They looked up in their direction while frantically loading their muskets, seemingly preparing for the next round of firing.

Wow, how can their muskets shoot so far?
"Scatter! Charge forward and cut them down!" Ortai spurred his horse and charged forward.

More than ten armored cavalrymen followed behind him, spreading out into a wide fan shape, rushing towards the breakthrough.

The musketeers remained extremely calm, standing as still as statues, and did not stop their actions as the enemy charged.

In a few breaths, they finished loading their ammunition, raised their muskets, and aimed at the Eight Banners armored cavalry charging towards them.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

With several gunshots, two more Manchu cavalrymen fell from their horses, one of whom had his right leg stuck in the stirrup and was dragged more than ten feet away by the frightened horse.

This situation immediately sent a chill down Ortai's spine and up to his head.

He subconsciously touched the armor on his chest to check if any bullets had hit his body.

After firing their rounds, the musketeers calmly put away their weapons, turned their horses, and rode away without ever encountering the approaching Manchu cavalry.

"Whoosh!" Ortai angrily shot out the arrow in his hand, but after flying dozens of steps, the arrow fell slumped to the snow.

"New Chinese!" He pulled on the reins and stopped.

"Commander, shall we give up the chase?" Several armored cavalrymen who had followed him also reined in their horses and stopped behind him. "Their horsemanship is no match for our pursuit!"

"Go and cut off the heads of the Ming cavalry!" Ortai turned his horse around and galloped northeast.

There, the Ming cavalry, who had just been scattered, were regrouping and preparing to launch a counterattack against the Qing cavalry.

Even though the Ming army lost more than thirty cavalrymen, they still had an overwhelming numerical advantage. If they were allowed to form a battle formation and launch a full-scale attack, they would likely suffer a defeat.

Even if it's a one-for-two or one-for-three trade, it's still extremely uneconomical.

We must concentrate our limited forces to completely crush the Ming cavalry, and then we can calmly reap their heads from behind.

The few Xinhua musketeers were no threat, and taking advantage of our unpreparedness, they sneaked over and fired a couple of shots, resulting in the loss of four or five armored cavalrymen.

However, what he didn't expect was the terrible price he would pay for making this decision.
-

The warhorse puffed out white mist as it drew arcs across the snowfield, while Ortai's lame leg convulsed from gripping the horse's belly for so long.

He gritted his teeth, turning the pain into an even more ferocious charge.

More than thirty armored cavalrymen of the Bordered Yellow Banner once again slashed into the Ming army's ranks like sickles, the blood droplets from their slashes reflecting an eerie red light in the dim sunlight.

"Kill!" Ortai's iron mace smashed the shoulder blade of a Ming cavalryman, and the splattered blood and flesh stuck to his frosty beard.

The Ming army ranks collapsed again. In the chaos, a Ming soldier fell off his horse and was trampled by several warhorses, breaking his lumbar spine. His screams sounded like a rooster being strangled.

Just as the Qing army was cheering and preparing to gather and pursue the fleeing Ming cavalry, several familiar yet chilling popping sounds rang out again.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!..."

As the gunshots rang out, two armored cavalrymen in the Qing army formation immediately fell from their horses.

"They're here again!" Erhe pointed his sword to the northwest.

The five black-clad musketeers had somehow managed to flank them, standing a hundred and twenty paces away. They were now reloading their ammunition with their heads down, puffs of white smoke rising from their guns.

They tore open the oil paper package with their teeth, stuffed the lead bullets and gunpowder into the barrel, and then tamped it down with a scouring pad. The whole process took no more than ten breaths, much faster than the Korean musketeers.

"Watch out!" shouted one of the armored riders.

The five men had finished loading their ammunition and raised their muskets again.

Ortai's neck hairs immediately stood on end, and he instinctively leaned forward on the horse's back.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!..."

Gunshots.

The person collapsed.

One of the armored riders was shot in the left shoulder, fell from his horse, and let out a muffled groan.

Another armored cavalryman was shot in the arm, and in pain, he dropped his sword and cried out.

"Kill them!" Ortai roared, his eyes blazing with fury. He turned his horse around and charged toward the five Xinhua musketeers, ignoring the fleeing Ming cavalry.

Upon seeing a troop of Qing cavalry charging towards them, the five new Chinese men put away their muskets, mounted their horses, and fled swiftly to the northwest without any regard for their image.

Oh dear, these cowards! They don't even dare to fight face to face, they only know how to fire their guns in secret.

They are not even as good as the Ming army!

As more than ten Qing cavalrymen pursued the Xinhua musketeers, the previously scattered Ming cavalry suddenly felt the pressure ease and began to regroup and attempt a counterattack.

A centurion wearing half-plate armor led more than forty riders to charge at the right flank of the Qing army, wielding his saber and cutting down a Han Chinese bannerman.

Behind him, more Ming cavalrymen charged toward the lightly armored Qing cavalry, shouting as they charged.

In an instant, on the snow-covered plain, iron hooves flew, and mud and snow splashed everywhere.

More than a hundred Ming cavalrymen crashed into the right flank of the Qing army like an iron torrent. In the flash of swords, the head of an Eight Banners soldier flew high into the air, and blood drew a tragic arc in the cold wind.

"Surround them!" shouted the Ming army captain in plate armor, his saber slashing at the neck guard of a Qing cavalryman, the blade scraping against the armor with a teeth-grinding sound.

More Ming cavalrymen flanked the Qing army from both sides, and in the blink of an eye, they surrounded the remaining twenty-odd Qing troops, with the sound of clashing metal ringing out incessantly.

Three Ming cavalrymen simultaneously attacked an old soldier from the Bordered Yellow Banner. A spear pierced his thigh, a saber severed his bowstring, and finally, an iron mace smashed heavily onto his skull, splattering his brains onto the frozen ground.

On the other side, five or six Ming soldiers were using lassos to entangle a frightened warhorse. The Qing soldiers on the horse were dragged off the saddle and were quickly hacked to pieces.

Ortai suddenly turned around and saw that the one-armed Erhe was being besieged by several Ming cavalrymen. His old subordinate was holding his knife and desperately blocking the thrust of a spear, but a saber suddenly slashed down from the side and slashed hard on his neck, causing him to fall off his horse.

On the snow, there were corpses of men and horses lying everywhere, and the gushing blood slowly congealed into eerie red ice in the bitter cold.

Ortai's eyes reddened, and he turned to look at the Xinhua musketeers fleeing ahead, then tightened his right hand on the reins.

"Withdraw!...Return to the city!" He gritted his teeth and roared out this humiliating order.

Now, he's figured it out. Those Xinhua musketeers are like wolves on the grasslands, always staying out of their arrow range, then using deadly bites to force their prey to bleed out and eventually die slowly.

When the Liaoyang city walls finally came into view, the Ming soldiers and the few Xinhua musketeers behind them stopped their pursuit, stopped their horses on a high hill at a distance, and coldly watched the city.

“Commander…” Akdun stood at the city gate, looking in horror at the Eight Banners cavalry retreating in defeat.

Of the more than sixty riders who left the city, only twenty-four have returned unscathed!
The moment the city gates slammed shut, Ortai finally collapsed, slumping against his horse and letting it carry him back to the government office.

Vomit mixed with blood gushed from his mouth onto the front of his armor.

In a daze, I heard someone shouting from the city wall: "The Ming dogs are coming!"

But these sounds all seem very distant.

Ortai's mind kept flashing back to the images of those Xinhua musketeers loading and firing—their movements were simple and swift, seemingly without the need for tedious gunpowder quantification, as easy as stuffing tobacco into a pipe.

What terrified him even more was that their muskets could fire more than a hundred paces and were quite lethal.

What kind of enemy are we fighting?

(End of this chapter)