CAPTURE OF FANCHʻÊNG:
CHUKO LIANG RECOMMENDED.
In hot anger, Tsʻao Jên lost no time in marching out to avenge the loss
of so many of his army. He hastily crossed the river to attack Hsinyeh
and trample it in the dust.
When Tan Fu got back into the city he said to his master, “When Tsʻao
Jên, now at Fanchʻêng, hears of his losses, he will try to retrieve
them and will come to attack us.”
“What is the counter move?” asked Yüan-tê.
“As he will come with all his force his own city will be left
undefended; we will surprise it.”
“By what ruse?”
The adviser leaned over and whispered to his chief. Whatever the plan
was it pleased Yüan-tê, who made arrangements. Soon the scouts reported
Tsʻao Jên crossing the river with a mighty host.
“Just as I guessed,” said Tan Fu, hearing of it.
Then he suggested that Yüan-tê should lead out one army against the
invaders. He did so, and, when the formation was complete, Chao Yün
rode to the front as champion and challenged the other side.
Li Tien rode out and engaged. At about the tenth bout Li Tien found he
was losing and retired toward his own side. Chao Yün pressed after him,
but was checked by a heavy discharge of arrows from the wings. Then
both sides stopped the battle and retired to their camps.
Li Tien reported to his chief that their opponents were brave, very
full of spirit, and that they would be hard to overcome and advised a
retreat on Fanchʻêng.
Tsʻao Jên angrily replied, “You damped the men’s spirits before we
started, and now you betray us. You have been bought and you deserve
death.”
He called in the executioners and they led away their victim. But the
other officers came to intercede and Tien was spared. However, he was
transferred to the command of the rear, while Tsʻao Jên himself led the
attack.
Next day the drums beat an advance and Tsʻao Jên, having drawn up his
men, sent a messenger over to ask if his opponent recognised his plan
of array. So Tan Fu went on a hill and looked over it. Then he said to
Liu Pei “The arrangement is called ‘The Eight Docked Gates,’ and each
‘gate’ has a name. If you enter by one of the three named ‘Birth,’
‘Bellevue’ and ‘Expanse’ you succeed; if by one of the ‘gates’
‘Wounds,’ ‘Fear,’ or ‘Annihilation,’ you sustain injuries. The other
two ‘gates’ are named ‘Obstacles’ and ‘Death,’ and to enter them means
the end. Now, though the eight ‘gates’ are all there quite correct, the
central ‘key-post’ is lacking and the formation can be thrown into
confusion by entry from the south-east and exit due west.”
Wherefore certain orders were issued and Chao Yün, leading half a
company, rode out on his prancing steed to break the array. He burst
in, as directed, at the south-east and, with great clamour and
fighting, reached the centre. Tsʻao Jên made for the north, but Chao
Yün, instead of following him, made a dash westward and got through.
Thence he turned round to the south-east again and smote till Tsʻao
Jên’s army was in disarray. A general advance was signalled and the
defeat was severe. The beaten enemy retired.
Tan Fu forbade pursuit and they returned.
The loss of the battle convinced Tsʻao Jên of the wisdom of his
colleague and he sent for him to consult.
“They certainly have some very able person in Liu Pei’s army since my
formation was so quickly broken,” said Tsʻao Jên.
“My chief anxiety is about Fanchʻêng,” said Li Tien.
“I will raid their camp this night,” said Jên. “If I succeed we will
decide upon what should be done next. If I fail, we will return to
Fanchʻêng.”
“The camp will be well prepared against such a thing and you will
fail,” said Li.
“How can you expect to fight successfully when you are so full of
doubts?” said Jên, angrily.
He held no more converse with his cautious colleague, but himself took
command of the van and set out. Tien was relegated to the rear. The
attack on the enemy’s camp was fixed for the second watch.
Now as Tan Fu was discussing plans with his chief a whirlwind went by,
which Fu said foretold a raid on the camp.
“How shall we meet it?” said Yüan-tê.
“The plans are quite ready,” was the reply.
He whispered them to the chief. So at the second watch, when the enemy
arrived, they saw fires on all sides; the stockades and huts burning.
Tsʻao Jên understood at once that all hope of a surprise was vain and
he turned to get away as quickly as possible. This was the signal for
Chao Yün to fall on and that cut his return road. He hastened north
toward the river, and reached the bank, but, while waiting for boats to
cross the stream, up came Chang Fei and attacked.
By dint of great efforts and with the support of his colleague he got
into a boat, but most of the men were drowned in the stream. As soon as
he got to the farther shore he bolted for Fanchʻêng. He reached the
wall and hailed the gate, but, instead of a friendly welcome, he heard
the rolling of drums, which was soon followed by the appearance of a
body of men. Kuan Yü led them.
“I took the city a long time ago,” shouted Kuan Yü.
This was a severe shock to Jên, who turned to flee. As soon as he faced
about Kuan Yü attacked and killed many of his men. The remnant hastened
to Hsüchʻang. On the road the beaten general wondered who had advised
his opponents with such success.
While the defeated general had to find his way back to the capital,
Yüan-tê had scored a great success. Afterwards he marched to Fanchʻêng,
where he was welcomed by the magistrate Liu Pi, himself a scion of the
ruling family, who had been born in Changsha. He received Yüan-tê as a
guest in his own house and gave banquets and treated him exceedingly
well.
In the train of the magistrate, Yüan-tê saw a very handsome and
distinguished-looking young man, and asked who he was.
Liu Pi replied, “He is my nephew, Kʻôu Fêng, an orphan, whom I am
taking care of.”
Yüan-tê had taken a great liking for the lad and proposed to adopt him.
His guardian was willing, and so the adoption was arranged. The young
man’s name was changed to Liu Fêng. When Yüan-tê left, he took his
adopted son with him. He was then made to bow before Kuan Yü and Chang
Fei as uncles.
Kuan Yü was doubtful of the wisdom of adopting another son, saying,
“You have a son; why do you think it necessary to adopt another? It may
cause confusion.”
“How? I shall treat him as a father should and he will serve me as
befits a son.”
Kuan Yü was displeased. Then Yüan-tê and Tan Fu began further
discussions of strategy and they decided to leave a guard in Fanchʻêng
and to return to Hsinyeh.
In the meantime Tsʻao Tsʻao’s defeated generals had gone back. When
they saw the Minister, Tsʻao Jên threw himself on the ground weeping
and acknowledging his faults. He told the tale of his losses.
“The fortune of war,” said Tsʻao Tsʻao. “But I should like to know who
laid Liu Pei’s plans.”
“That was Tan Fu,” said Jên.
“Who is he?” asked Tsʻao.
Chʻêng Yü said, “The man is not Tan Fu. When young this man was fond of
fencing and used to take up the quarrels of other men and avenge their
wrongs. Once, after killing his man, he let down his hair, muddied his
face and was trying to escape when a lictor caught him and questioned
him. He would not reply. So they carted him through the streets beating
a drum and asking if any one recognised him. Nobody dared own to
knowing him, if they did so. However, his companions managed to release
him secretly and he ran away under some other name. Then he turned to
study and wandered hither and thither wherever scholars were to be
found. He was a regular disputant with Ssŭma Hui. His real name is Hsü
Shu (Yüan-chih) and he comes from Yingchou. Tan Fu is merely an assumed
name.”
“How does he compare with yourself?” asked Tsʻao.
“Ten times cleverer.”
“It is a pity. If able men gather to Liu Pei his wings will soon grow.
What is to be done?”
“Hsü Shu is there now; but if you wanted him it would not be difficult
to call him,” replied Hsün Yu.
“How could I make him come?” said Tsʻao.
“He is noted for his affection for his mother. His father died young,
leaving his mother a widow with one other son. Now that son is dead and
his mother has no one to care for her. If you sent and got his mother
here and told her to write and summon her son he would surely come.”
Tsʻao sent without loss of time and had the old lady brought to the
capital, where he treated her exceedingly well. Presently he said, “I
hear you have a very talented son, who is now at Hsinyeh helping on
that rebel Liu Pei against the government. There he is like a jewel in
a muck-heap; it is a pity. Supposing you were to call him, I could
speak of him before the Emperor and he might get an important office.”
Tsʻao bade his secretaries bring along the “four precious things of the
study,” with which the dame could write to her son.
“What sort of a man is Liu Pei?” asked she.
Tsʻao replied, “A common sort of person from Pʻeichün, irresponsible
enough to style himself Imperial Uncle, and so claiming some sort of
connection with the Hans. He is neither trustworthy nor virtuous.
People say he is a superior man as far as externals go, but a mean man
by nature.”
The dame answered in a hard voice, “Why do you malign him so bitterly?
Every one knows he is a descendant of one of the Han Princes and so
related to the House. He has condescended to take a lowly office and is
respectful to all men. He has a reputation for benevolence. Every one,
young and old, cowherds and firewood cutters, all know him by name and
know that he is the finest and noblest man in the world. If my son is
in his service, then has he found a fitting master. You, under the name
of a Han minister, are really nothing but a Han rebel. Contrary to all
truth you tell me Yüan-tê is a rebel, whereby you try to induce me to
make my son leave the light for darkness. Are you devoid of all sense
of shame?”
As she finished speaking she picked up the inkstone to strike Tsʻao
Tsʻao. This so enraged him that he forgot himself and the need for
caution and bade the executioners lead off the old woman and put her to
death. The adviser Chʻêng Yü, however, stopped this act of folly by
pointing out the effect it would have on his reputation and how it
would enhance hers, beside adding a keen desire for revenge to the
motives which led Hsü Shu to labour in the interest of Liu Pei. He
closed his remarks saying, “You had better keep her here so that Hsü
Shu’s body and his thoughts may be in different places. He can not
devote all his energies to helping our enemy while his mother is here.
If you keep her I think I can persuade the son to come and help you.”
So the outspoken old lady was saved. She was given quarters and cared
for. Daily Chʻêng Yü went to ask after her health, falsely claiming to
being a sworn brother of her son’s, and so entitled to serve her and
treat her as a filial son would have done. He often sent her gifts and
wrote letters to her so that she had to write in reply. And thereby he
learned her handwriting so that he could forge a “home” letter. When he
could do this without fear of detection he wrote one and sent it by the
hand of a trusty person to Hsinyeh.
One day a man arrived enquiring for one Tan Fu, a secretary; he had a
letter from home for him. The soldiers led him to Tan Fu. The man said
he was an official carrier of letters and had been told to bring this
one. Tan Fu quickly tore it open and read:—
“On your brother’s death recently I was left alone; no relative was
near and I was lonely and sad. To my regret, the Minister Tsʻao
Tsʻao inveigled me into coming to the capital, and now he says you
are a rebel and he has thrown me into bonds. However, thanks to
Chʻêng Yü, my life has been spared so far, and, if you would only
come and submit too, I should be quite safe. When this reaches you,
remember how I have toiled for you and come at once, that you may
prove yourself a filial son. We may together find some way of
escape to our own place and avoid the dangers that threaten me. My
life hangs by a thread and I look to you to save me. You will not
require a second summons.”
Tears gushed from Hsü Shu’s eyes as he read, and with the letter in his
hand he went to seek his chief, to whom he told the true story of his
life and how he had joined Yüan-tê. “I heard that Liu Piao treated men
well and went to him. I happened to arrive at a time of confusion. I
saw he was of no use, so I left him very soon. I arrived at the retreat
of Ssŭma Shui-ching (‘Water-mirror’) late one night and told him, and
he blamed me for not knowing a master when I saw one. Then he told me
of you and I sang that wild song in the streets to attract your
attention. You took me: you used me. But now my aged mother is the
victim of Tsʻao Tsʻao’s wiles. She is in prison and he threatens to do
worse. She has written to call me and I must go. I hoped to be able to
render you faithful service, but, with my dear mother a captive, I
should be useless. Therefore I must leave you and hope in the future to
meet you again.”
Yüan-tê broke into loud moans when he heard that his adviser was to
leave.
“The bond between mother and son is divine,” said he, “and I do not
need to be reminded where your duty lies. When you have seen your
venerable mother perhaps I may have again the happiness of receiving
your instruction.”
Having said farewell, Hsü Shu prepared to leave at once. However, at
Yüan-tê’s wish he consented to stay over the night.
Then Sun Chʻien said privately to his master, “Hsü Shu is indeed a
genius, but he has been here long enough to know all our secrets. If
you let him go over to Tsʻao, he will be in his confidence and that
will be to our detriment. You ought to keep him at all costs and not
let him go. When Tsʻao sees he does not come he will put the mother to
death, and that will make Hsü Shu the more zealous in your service, for
he will burn to avenge his mother’s death.”
“I cannot do that. It would be very cruel and vile to procure the death
of his mother that I might retain the son’s services. If I kept him it
would lead to a rupture of the parental lien, and that would be a sin I
would rather die than commit.”
Both were grieved and sighed. Yüan-tê asked the parting guest to a
banquet, but he declined saying, “With my mother a prisoner I can
swallow nothing, nay, though it were brewed from gold or distilled from
jewels.”
“Alas! your departure is as if I lost both my hands,” said Yüan-tê.
“Even the liver of a dragon or the marrow of a phoenix would be bitter
in my mouth.”
They looked into each other’s eyes and wept. They sat silent till dawn.
When all was ready for the journey the two rode out of the city side by
side. At Long Pavilion they dismounted to drink the stirrup cup.
Yüan-tê lifted the goblet and said, “It is my mean fortune that
separates me from you, but I hope that you may serve well your new lord
and become famous.”
Hsü Shu wept as he replied, “I am but a poor ignorant person whom you
have kindly employed. Unhappily I have to break our intercourse in the
middle, but my venerable mother is the real cause. Though Tsʻao Tsʻao
use all manner of means to coerce me, yet will I never plan for him.”
“After you are gone I shall only bury myself in the hills and hide in
the forests,” said Yüan-tê.
Tan Fu said, “I had in my heart for you the position of leader of the
chieftains, but my plans have been altogether upset by my mother. I
have been of no advantage to you nor should I do any good by remaining.
But you ought to seek some man of lofty wisdom to help you in your
great emprise. It is unseemly to be downcast.”
“I shall find none to help better than you, my master.”
“How can I permit such extravagant praise?” said Tan Fu. “I am only a
useless blockhead.”
As he moved off he said to the followers, “Officers, I hope you will
render the Princely One good service, whereby to write his name large
in the country’s annals and cause his fame to glow in the pages of
history. Do not be like me, a man who has left his work half done.”
They were all deeply affected. Yüan-tê could not bring himself to part
from his friend. He escorted him a little further, and yet a little
further, till Shu said, “I will not trouble you, O Princely One, to
come further. Let us say our farewell here.”
Yüan-tê dismounted, took Hsü Shu by the hands and said, “Alas! we part.
Each goes his way and who knows if we shall meet again?”
His tears fell like rain and Shu wept also. But the last goodbyes were
said and when the traveller had gone Yüan-tê stood gazing after the
little party and watched it slowly disappear. At the last glimpse he
broke into lamentation.
“He is gone! What shall I do?”
One of the trees shut out the travellers from his sight and he testily
pointed at it, saying, “Would that I could cut down every tree in the
countryside!”
“Why?” said his men.
“Because they hinder my sight of Hsü Yüan-chih.”
Suddenly they saw Hsü Shu galloping back.
Said Yüan-tê, “He is returning; can it be that he is going to stay?”
So he hastened forward to meet him and when they got near enough he
cried, “This return is surely for no slight reason.”
Checking his horse, Hsü Shu said, “In the turmoil of my feelings I
forgot to say one word. There is a man of wonderful skill living about
twenty li from the city of Hsiangyang, why not seek him?”
“Can I trouble you to ask him to visit me?”
“He will not condescend to visit you; you must go to him. But if he
consent you will be as fortunate as the Chous when they got the aid of
Lü Wang, or Han when Chang Liang came to help.”
“How does the unknown compare with yourself?”
“With me? Compared with him I am as a worn-out cart-horse to a kilin,
an old crow to a phoenix. This man is of the same kidney as Kuan Chung
and Yo I but, in my opinion, he is far their superior. He has the
talent to measure the heavens and mete the earth; he is a man who
overshadows every other in the world.”
“I would know his name.”
“He belongs to Yangtu of Langya; and his name, a double name, is Chuko
Liang. His minor name is Kʻung-ming. He is of good family. His father
was an official but died young and the young fellow went with his uncle
to Chingchou, the Prefect of which was an old friend of his uncle’s,
and he became settled there. Then his uncle died and he, with a younger
brother, Chün, were farmers. They used to amuse themselves with the
composition of songs in the ‘Old Father Liang’ style.
“On their land was a ridge of hills called the Sleeping Dragon and the
elder of the two took it as a name and called himself ‘Master Sleeping
Dragon.’ This is your man; he is a veritable genius. You ought really
to visit him and if he will help you, you need feel no more anxiety
about peace in the Empire.”
“‘Water-mirror’ spoke that time of two men, Fu-lung and Fêng-chʻu, and
said if only one of them could be got to help me all would be well.
Surely he, whom you speak of, is one of them.”
“Fêng-chʻu, or ‘Phoenix Fledging,’ is ‘Pʻang Tʻung’: and Fu-lung, or
‘Hidden Dragon,’ is ‘Chuko Kʻung-ming.’”
Yüan-tê jumped with delight, “Now at last I know who the mysterious
ones are. How I wish they were here! But for you I should have still
been like a blind man,” said he.
Some one has celebrated in verse this interview where Hsü Shu from
horseback recommended Kʻung-ming:—
Yüan-tê heard that his able friend
Must leave him, with saddened heart,
For each to the other had grown very dear,
Both wept when it came to part.
But the parting guest then mentioned a name
That echoed both loud and deep,
Like a thunder clap in a spring-time sky,
And there wakened a dragon from sleep.
Thus was the famous Kʻung-ming recommended to the lord he was to serve,
and Hsü Shu rode away.
Now Yüan-tê understood the speech of the hermit Ssŭma Hui, and he woke
as one from a drunken sleep. At the head of his officers, he retook the
road to the city and having prepared rich gifts set out, with his
brothers, for Nanyang.
Under the influence of his emotions at parting Hsü Shu had mentioned
the name and betrayed the retreat of his friend. Now he thought of the
possibility that Kʻung-ming would be unwilling to play the part of
helper in Yüan-tê’s scheme, so he determined to go to visit him. He
therefore took his way to Reposing Dragon Ridge and dismounted at the
cottage. Asked why he had come, he replied, “I wished to serve Liu Pei
of Hsiangchou but my mother has been imprisoned by Tsʻao Tsʻao, and has
sent to call me. Therefore I have had to leave him. At the moment of
parting I commended you to him. You may expect him speedily and I hope,
Sir, you will not refuse your aid but will consent to use your great
talents to help him.”
Kʻung-ming showed annoyance and said, “And so you have made me the
victim of your sacrifice.”
So saying he shook out his sleeves and left the room. The guest
shamefacedly retired, mounted his horse and hastened on his way to the
capital to see his mother.
To help the lord he loved right well,
He summoned the aid of another,
When he took the distant homeward way,
At the call of a loving mother.
What was the sequel will appear in the following chapters.