KʻAN TSÊ PRESENTS THE TREACHEROUS LETTER:
PʻAN TʻUNG SUGGESTS CHAINING THE SHIPS TOGETHER.
This Kʻan Tsê was from Shanyin, a son of a humble family. He loved
books, but as he was too poor to buy he used to borrow. He had a
wonderfully tenacious memory, was very eloquent and no coward. Sun
Chʻüan had employed him among his advisers and he and Huang Kai were
excellent friends. The latter had thought of him to present the
treacherous letter as his gifts made him most suitable. Kʻan Tsê
accepted with enthusiasm, saying, “When you, my friend, have suffered
so much for our lord, could I spare myself? No; while a man lives he
must go on fulfilling his mission or he is no better than the herbs
that rot in the field.”
Huang Kai slipped off the couch and came over to salute him.
“However, this matter must speed,” continued Kʻan Tsê; “there is no
time to lose.”
“The letter is already written,” said Huang Kai.
Kʻan Tsê received it and left. That night he disguised himself as an
old fisherman and started in a small punt for the north shore, under
the cold, glittering light of the stars.
Soon he drew near the enemy’s camp and was captured by the patrol.
Without waiting for day they informed their General, who said at once,
“Is he not just a spy?”
“No,” said they, “he is alone, just an old fisherman; and he says he is
an adviser in the service of Wu named Kʻan Tsê, and he has come on
secret business.”
“Bring him,” said Tsʻao Tsʻao and he was led in. Tsʻao was seated in a
brilliantly lighted tent. He was leaning on a small table and as soon
as he saw the prisoner, he said, “You are an adviser of Wu; what then
are you doing here?”
“People say that you greedily welcome men of ability; I do not think
your question a very proper one. Friend Huang, you made a mistake,”
said Kʻan.
“You know I am fighting against Wu and you come here privately. Why
should I not question you?”
“Huang Kai is an old servant of Wu, one who has served three successive
rulers. Now he has been cruelly beaten, for no fault, before the face
of all the officers in Chou Yü’s camp. He is grievously angry about
this and wishes to desert to your side that he may be revenged. He
discussed it with me, and as we are inseparable, I have come to give
you his letter asking whether you would receive him.”
“Where is the letter?” said Tsʻao.
The missive was produced and presented. Tsʻao Tsʻao opened it and
read:—“I, Huang Kai, have been generously treated by the Sun family and
have served them single-heartedly. Lately they have been discussing an
attack with our forces on the enormous army of the central government.
As every one knows our few are no match for such a multitude and every
officer of Wu, wise or foolish, recognises that quite well. However,
Chou Yü who, after all, is but a youth and a shallow minded simpleton,
maintains that success is possible and rashly desires to smash stones
with an egg. Beside this he is arbitrary and tyrannical, punishing for
no crime, and leaving meritorious service unrewarded. I am an old
servant and for no reason have been shamed in the sight of men.
Wherefore I hate him in my heart.
“You, O Minister, treat men with sincerity and are ready to welcome
ability and so I, and those under my leadership, desire to enter your
service whereby to acquire reputation and remove the shameful stigma.
The commissariat, weapons and the supply ships will also come over to
you. In perfect sincerity I state these matters; I pray you not to
doubt me.”
Leaning there on the low table by his side, Tsʻao turned this letter
over and over and read it again and again. Then he smacked the table,
opened his eyes wide with anger saying, “Huang Kai is trying to play
the personal injury trick on me, is he? And you are in it as the
intermediary to present the letter. How dare you come to sport with
me?”
He ordered the lictors to thrust forth the messenger and take off his
head. Kan Tsê was hustled out, his face untroubled. On the contrary, he
laughed aloud. At this Tsʻao told them to bring him back and harshly
said to him, “What do you find to laugh at now that I have foiled you
and your ruse has failed?”
“I was not laughing at you; I was laughing at my friend’s simplicity.”
“What do you mean by his simplicity?”
“If you want to slay, slay; do not trouble me with a multitude of
questions.”
“I have read all the books on the art of war and I am well versed in
all ways of misleading the enemy. This ruse of yours might have
succeeded with many, but it will not do for me.”
“And so you say that the letter is a vicious trick?” said Kʻan.
“What I say is that your little slip has sent you to the death you
risked. If the thing was real and you were sincere, why does not the
letter name a time? What have you to say to that?”
Kʻan Tsê waited to the end and then laughed louder than ever, saying,
“I am so glad you are not frightened, but can still boast of your
knowledge of the books of war. Now you will not lead away your
soldiers. If you fight, Chou Yü will certainly capture you. But how sad
to think I die at the hand of such an ignorant fellow!”
“What mean you? I, ignorant?”
“You are ignorant of any strategy and a victim of unreason; is not that
sufficient?”
“Well then, tell me where is any fault in my navy.”
“You treat wise men too badly for me to talk to you. You can finish me
and let there be an end of it.”
“If you can speak with any show of reason, I will treat you
differently.”
“Do you not know that when one is going to desert one’s master and
become a renegade one cannot say exactly when the chance will occur? If
one binds one’s self to a fixed moment and the thing cannot be done
just then, the secret will be discovered. One must watch for an
opportunity and take it when it comes. Think; is it possible to know
exactly when? But you know nothing of common sense; all you know is how
to put good men to death. So you really are an ignorant fellow.”
At this Tsʻao changed his manner, got up and came over to the prisoner
bowing, “I did not see clearly; that is quite true. I offended you and
I hope you will forget it.”
“The fact is that Huang Kai and I are both inclined to desert to you;
we even yearn for it as a child desires its parents. Is it possible
that we should play you false?”
“If you two could render me so great a service, you shall certainly be
richly rewarded.”
“We do not desire rank or riches; we come because it is the will of
heaven and the plain way of duty.”
Then wine was set out and Kʻan Tsê was treated as an honoured guest.
While they were drinking some one came in and whispered in Tsʻao’s ear.
He replied, “Let me see the letter.” Whereupon the man pulled out and
gave him a letter, which evidently pleased him.
“That is from the two Tsʻais,” thought Kʻan Tsê. “They are reporting
the punishment of my friend and that will be a proof of the sincerity
of his letter.”
Turning toward Kʻan Tsê, Tsʻao said, “I must ask you to return to
settle the date with your friend: as soon as I know I will have a force
waiting.”
“I cannot return; pray, Sir, send some other man you can trust.”
“If some one else should go the secret would out.”
Kʻan Tsê refused again and again but at last gave way, saying, “If I am
to go I must not wait here; I must be off at once.”
Tsʻao offered him gold and silks, which were refused. Tsê started, left
the camp and re-embarked for the south bank, where he related all that
had happened to Huang Kai.
“If it had not been for your persuasive tongue then had I undergone
this suffering in vain,” said Huang.
“I will now go to get news of the two Tsʻais,” said Kʻan Tsê.
“Excellent,” said Huang.
He went to the camp commanded by Kan Ning and when they were seated he
said to his host, “I was much distressed when I saw how disgracefully
you were treated for your intercession on behalf of Huang Kai.”
Kan Ning smiled. Just then the two Tsʻais came, and host and guest
exchanged glances. The former said, “The truth is the General is over
confident and he reckons us as nobody. We count for nothing. Every one
is talking of the way I was insulted. Aiya!” and he shouted and gritted
his teeth and smacked the table in his wrath.
Kʻan Tsê leaned over toward his host and said something in a very low
voice, at which Kan Ning bent his head and sighed.
The two visitors and spies gathered from this that both Kan and Kʻan
were ripe for desertion and determined to probe them.
“Why, Sir, do you anger him? Why not be silent about his injuries?”
said they.
“What know you of our bitterness?” said Kʻan Tsê.
“We think you seem much inclined to go over to Tsʻao Tsʻao,” said they.
Kʻan Tsê at this lost colour: Kan Ning started up and drew his sword,
crying, “They have found out; they must die to keep their mouths shut.”
“No, no,” cried the two in a flurry. “Let us tell you something quite
secret.”
“Quick, then,” cried Kan Ning.
So Tsʻai Ho said, “The truth is that we are only pretended deserters,
and if you two gentlemen are of our way of thinking we can manage
things for you.”
“But are you speaking the truth?” said Kan.
“Is it likely we should say such a thing if it were untrue?” cried both
at the same moment.
Kan Ning put on a pleased look and said, “Then this is the very
heaven-given chance.”
“You know we have already told Tsʻao of the Huang Kai affair and how
you were insulted.”
“The fact is I have given the Minister a letter on behalf of Huang Kai
and he sent me back again to settle the date of his desertion,” said
Kʻan.
“When an honest man happens upon an enlightened master his heart will
always be drawn toward him,” said Kan Ning.
The four then drank together and opened their hearts to each other. The
two brothers Tsʻai wrote a private letter to their master saying that
Kan Ning had agreed to join in their plot and play the traitor, and
Kʻan Tsê also wrote and they sent the letters secretly to Tsʻao Tsʻao.
Kan’s letter said that Huang had found no opportunity so far. However,
when he came his boat could be recognised by a black, indented flag.
That would mean he was on board.
However, when Tsʻao Tsʻao got these two letters he was still doubtful
and called together his advisers to talk over the matter. Said he, “On
the other side Kan Ning has been put to shame by the Commander-in-Chief
whom he is prepared to betray for the sake of revenge. Huang Kai has
been punished and sent Kʻan Tsê to propose that he should come over to
our side. Only I still distrust the whole thing. Who will go over to
the camp to find out the real truth?”
Then Chiang Kan spoke up, saying, “I failed in my mission the other day
and am greatly mortified. I will risk my life again and, this time, I
shall surely bring good news.”
Tsʻao Tsʻao approved of him as messenger and bade him start. He set out
in a small craft and speedily arrived in Chiangnan landing near the
naval camp. Then he sent to inform Chou Yü, who hearing who it was
chuckled, saying, “Success depends upon this man.”
Then he called Lu Su and told him to call Pʻang Tʻung to come and do
certain things for him.
This Pʻang Tʻung was from Hsiangyang. His other name was Shih-yüan and
he had gone to the east of the river to get away from the strife. Lu Su
had recommended him to Chou Yü, but he had not yet presented himself.
When Chou Yü sent to ask what scheme of attack he would recommend
against Tsʻao Tsʻao, Pʻang Tʻung had said to the messenger, “You must
use fire against him. But the river is wide and if one ship is set on
fire the others will scatter unless they are fastened together so that
they must remain in one place. That is the one road to success.”
Lu Su took this message to the General, who pondered over it and then
said, “The only person who can manage this is Pʻang Tʻung himself.”
“Tsʻao Tsʻao is very wily,” said Lu Su, “how can Pʻang Tʻung go?”
So Chou Yü was sad and undecided. He could think of no method till
suddenly the means presented itself in the arrival of Chiang Kan. He at
once sent instructions to Pʻang Tʻung how to act and then sat himself
in his tent to await his visitor Chiang Kan.
But the visitor became ill at ease and suspicious when he saw that his
old student friend did not come to welcome him and he took the
precaution of sending his boat into a retired spot to be made fast
before he went to the General’s tent.
When Chou Yü saw him he put on an angry face and said, “My friend, why
did you treat me so badly?”
Chiang Kan laughed and said, “I remembered the old days when we were as
brothers and I came expressly to pour out my heart to you. Why do you
say I treated you badly?”
“You came to persuade me to betray my master, which I would never do
unless the sea dried up and the rocks perished. Remembering the old
times I filled you with wine and kept you to sleep with me. And you;
you plundered my private letters and stole away with never a word of
farewell. You betrayed me to Tsʻao Tsʻao and caused the death of my two
friends on the other side and so caused all my plans to miscarry. Now
what have you come for? Certainly it is not out of kindness to me and I
care no more for our old friendship; it is cut in two, destroyed. I
would send you back again, but within a day or two I shall attack that
rebel and, if I let you stay in my camp, my plans will leak out. So I
am going to tell my attendants to conduct you to a certain retired hut
in the western hills and keep you there till I shall have won the
victory. Then I will send you back again.”
Chiang Kan tried to say something but Chou Yü would not listen. He
turned his back and went into the recesses of his tent. The attendants
led the visitor off, set him on a horse and took him away over the
hills to the small hut, leaving two soldiers to look after him.
When Chiang Kan found himself in the lonely hut he was very depressed
and had no desire to eat or sleep. But one night, when the stars were
very brilliant, he strolled out to enjoy them. Presently he came to the
rear of his lonely habitation and heard, near by, some one crooning
over a book. Approaching with stealthy steps he saw a tiny cabin half
hidden in a cliff whence a slender beam or two of light stole out
between the rafters. He went nearer and peeping in, saw a man reading
by the light of a lamp near which hung a sword. And the book was Sun
Wu’s “Art of War.”
“This is no common person,” thought he and so he knocked at the door.
The door was opened by the reader, who bade him welcome with cultivated
and refined ceremony. Chiang Kan enquired his name and the host replied
that he was Pʻang Tʻung, sometimes known as Shih-yüan.
“Then you are surely The Master known as ‘Phoenix Fledgeling,’ are you
not?”
“Yes; I am he.”
“How often have I heard you talked about! You are famous. But why are
you hidden away in this spot?”
“That fellow Chou Yü is too conceited to allow that any one else has
any talent and so I live here quietly. But who are you, Sir?”
“I am Chiang Kan.”
Then Pʻang Tʻung made him very welcome and led him in and the two sat
down to talk.
“With your gifts you would succeed anywhere,” said Chiang Kan. “If you
would enter Tsʻao Tsʻao’s service I would recommend you to him.”
“I have long desired to get away from here and if you, Sir, will
present me there is no time like the present. If Chou Yü heard of my
wish he would kill me, I am sure.”
So without more ado they made their way down the hill to the water’s
edge to seek the boat in which Chiang had come. They embarked and,
rowing swiftly, they soon reached the northern shore. At the central
camp Chiang landed and went to seek Tsʻao Tsʻao to whom he related the
story of the discovery of his new acquaintance.
When Tsʻao Tsʻao heard that the newcomer was Fêng-chʻu, or the “Phoenix
Chick” Master, he went to meet him, made him very welcome and soon they
sat down to talk on friendly terms.
Tsʻao Tsʻao said questioningly, “And so Chou Yü in his youth is
conceited and annoys his officers and rejects all their advice; I know
that. But your fame has been long known to me and now that you have
been gracious enough to turn my way I pray you not to be niggardly of
your advice.”
“I, too, know well that you are a model of military strategy,” said
Pʻang Tʻung, “but I should like to have one look at your disposition.”
So horses were brought and the two rode out to the lines, host and
visitor on equal terms, side by side. They ascended a hill whence they
had a wide view. After looking all round Pʻang Tʻung remarked, “Sun Wu,
come to life again, could not do better, nor Jang Chu if he reappeared.
All accords with the precepts. The camp is beside the hill and is
flanked by a forest. The front and rear are within sight of each other.
Gates of egress and ingress are provided and the roads of advance and
retirement are bent and broken.”
“Master, I entreat you not to overpraise me, but to advise me where I
can make further improvements,” said Tsʻao.
Then the two men rode down to the naval camp, where twenty four
openings were arranged facing the south. The cruisers and the
battleships were all lined up so as to protect the lighter craft which
lay inside. There were channels to pass to and fro and fixed anchorages
and stations.
Pʻang Tʻung surveying all this smiled, saying, “Sir Minister, if this
is your method of warfare, you enjoy no empty reputation.” Then
pointing to Chiangnan he went on, “Chou, my friend, Master Chou, you
are finished; you will have to die.”
They rode back to the chief tent and wine was brought. They discussed
military matters and Pʻang Tʻung held forth at length. Remarks and
comments flowed freely between the two, and Tsʻao formed an exalted
opinion of his new adherent’s abilities and treated him with the
greatest honour.
By and bye the guest seemed to have succumbed to the influence of many
cups and said, “Have you any capable medical men in your army?”
“What for?” said Tsʻao.
“There is a lot of illness among the marines and you ought to find some
remedy.”
The fact was that at this time Tsʻao’s men were suffering from the
climate; many were vomiting and not a few had died. It was a source of
great anxiety to him and when the newcomer suddenly mentioned it, of
course he had to ask advice.
Pʻang Tʻung said, “Your marine force is excellent, but there is just
one defect; it is not quite perfect.”
Tsʻao pressed him to say where the imperfection lay.
“I have a plan to overcome the ailment of the men so that no one shall
be sick and all fit for service.”
“What is this excellent scheme?” said Tsʻao.
“The river is wide and the tides ebb and flow. The winds and waves are
never at rest. Your men from the north are unused to ships and the
motion makes them ill. If your ships, large and small, were classed and
divided into thirties, or fifties, and joined up stem to stem by iron
chains and boards spread across them, to say nothing of men being able
to pass from one to the next, even horses could move about on them. If
this were done, then there would be no fear of the wind and the waves
and the rising and falling tides.”
Coming down from his seat Tsʻao Tsʻao thanked his guest saying, “I
could never defeat the land of Wu without this scheme of yours.”
“That is my idea,” said Pʻang Tʻung, “it is for you to decide about
it.”
Orders were then issued to call up all the blacksmiths and set them to
work, night and day, forging iron chains and great bolts to lock
together the ships. And the men rejoiced when they heard of the plan.
In Red Wall’s fight they used the flame,
The weapon here will be the same.
By Pʻang’s advice the ships were chained,
Else Chou had not that battle gained.
Pʻang Tʻung further told Tsʻao Tsʻao saying, “I know many bold men on
the other side who hate Chou Yü. If I may use my little tongue in your
service I can induce them to come over to you and if Chou Yü be left
alone you can certainly take him captive. And Liu Pei is of no
account.”
“Certainly if you could render me so great a service I would
memorialise the throne and obtain for you one of the highest offices,”
said Tsʻao.
“I am not doing this for the sake of wealth or honours, but from a
desire to succour mankind. If you cross the river I pray you be
merciful.”
“I am Heaven’s means of doing right and could not bear to slay the
people.”
Pʻang Tʻung thanked him and begged for a document that would protect
his own family. Tsʻao Tsʻao asked where they lived. He replied that
they lived by the river bank and Tsʻao Tsʻao ordered a protection to be
prepared. Having sealed it he gave it to Pʻang Tʻung who said, “You
should attack as soon as I have gone but do not let Chou Yü know
anything.”
Tsʻao Tsʻao promised secrecy and the wily traitor took his leave. Just
as he was about to embark he met a man in a Taoist robe, with a bamboo
comb in his hair, who stopped him saying, “You are very bold. Huang Kai
is planning to use the ‘personal injury ruse’ and Kʻan Tsê has
presented the letter of pretended desertion. You have proffered the
fatal scheme of chaining the ships together lest the flames may not
completely destroy them. This sort of mischievous work may have been
enough to blind Tsʻao Tsʻao but I saw it all.”
Pʻang Tʻung become helpless with fear, his three hun flown away, his
seven po scattered.
By guileful means one may succeed,
The victims too find friends in need.
The next chapter will tell who the stranger was.