BANQUET ON THE YANGTSE; TSʻAO TSʻAO’S SONG:
THE NORTHERN MEN FIGHT ON THE CHAINED SHIPS.
In the last chapter Pʻang Tung was brought up with a sudden shock when
some one seized him and said he understood. Upon turning to look at the
man he saw it was Hsü Shu, an old friend, and his heart revived.
Looking around and seeing no one near he said, “It would be a pity if
you upset my plan; the fate of the people of all the eighty-one
districts is in your hands.”
Hsü Shu smiled. “And what of the fate of these eighty-three legions of
men and horse?” said he.
“Do you intend to wreck my scheme?”
“I have never forgotten the kindness of Uncle Liu, nor my oath to
avenge the death of my mother at Tsʻao Tsʻao’s hands. I have said I
would never think out a plan for him. So am I likely to wreck yours
now, brother? But I have followed the army thus far and after they
shall have been defeated, good and bad will suffer alike and how can I
escape? Tell me how I can secure safety and I sew up my lips and go
away.”
Pʻang Tʻung smiled, “If you are as high-minded as that there is no
great difficulty.”
“Still I wish you would instruct me.”
So Pʻang Tʻung whispered something in his ear, which seemed to please
Hsü Shu greatly, for he thanked him most cordially and took his leave.
Then Pʻang Tʻung betook himself to his boat and left for the southern
shore.
His friend gone, Hsü Shu mischievously spread certain rumours in the
camp, and next day were to be seen everywhere men in small groups, some
talking, others listening, heads together and ears stretched out, till
the camps seemed to buzz. Some of the men went to Tsʻao Tsʻao and told
him that a rumour was running around that Han Sui and Ma Tʻêng had
attacked the capital. This troubled Tsʻao Tsʻao, who called together
his advisers to council. Said he, “The only anxiety I have felt in this
expedition was about the possible doings of Han Sui and Ma Tʻêng. Now
there is a rumour running among the men, and though I know not whether
it be true or false, it is necessary to be on one’s guard.”
At this point Hsü Shu said, “You have been kind enough to give me an
office, Sir, and I have really done nothing in return. If I may have
three companies I will march at once to San Pass and guard it. If there
be any pressing matter I will report at once.”
“If you would do this I should be quite at my ease. There are already
men beyond the Pass, who will be under your command, and now I will
give you three companies of horse and foot and Tsang Pa shall lead the
van and march quickly.”
Hsü Shu took leave of the Minister and left in company with Tsang Pa.
This was Pʻang’s scheme to secure the safety of Hsü Shu.
A poem says:—
Tsʻao Tsʻao marched south, but at his back
There rode the fear of rear attack.
Pʻang Tʻung’s good counsel Hsü Shu took,
And thus the fish escaped the hook.
Tsʻao Tsʻao’s anxiety diminished after he had thus sent away Hsü Shu.
Then he rode round all the camps, first the land forces and then the
naval. He boarded one of the large ships and thereon set up his
standard. The naval camps were arranged along two lines and every ship
carried a thousand bows and crossbows.
While he remained with the fleet occurred the full moon of the eleventh
month of the twelfth year of “Established Tranquillity.” The sky was
clear; there was no wind and the river lay unruffled. He prepared a
great banquet, with music, and thereto invited all his captains. As
evening drew on the moon rose over the eastern hills in its immaculate
beauty and beneath it lay the broad belt of the river like a band of
pure white silk. It was a great assembly and all the guests were clad
in gorgeous silks and embroidered robes and the arms of the fighting
men glittered in the moonlight. The officers, civil and military, were
seated in their proper order of precedence.
The setting, too, was exquisite. The Nanping hills were outlined as in
a picture; the boundaries of Chʻaisang lay in the east; the river
showed west as far as Hsiakʻou; on the south lay the Hills of Fan, on
the north was the “Black” Forest. The view stretched wide on every
side.
Tsʻao’s heart was jubilant and he harangued the assembly, “My one aim
since I enlisted my first small band of volunteers has been the removal
of evil from the State and I have sworn to cleanse the country and
restore tranquillity. Now there is only left this land of Chiangnan to
withstand me. I am at the head of a hundred legions. I depend upon you,
gentlemen, and have no doubt of my final success. After I have subdued
Chiangnan there will be no trouble in all the country. Then we shall
enjoy wealth and honour and revel in peace.”
They rose in a body and expressed their appreciation saying, “We trust
that you may soon report complete victory and we shall all repose in
the shade of your good fortune.”
In his elation Tsʻao Tsʻao bade the servants bring more wine and they
drank till late at night. Warmed and mellowed, the host pointed to the
south bank saying, “Chou Yü and Lu Su know not the appointed time.
Heaven is aiding me bringing upon them the misfortune of the desertion
of their most trusted friends.”
“O Minister, say nothing of these things lest they become known to the
enemy,” said Hsün Yu.
But the Minister only laughed. “You are all my trusty friends,” said
he, “both officers and humble attendants. Why should I refrain?”
Pointing to Hsiakʻou he continued, “You do not reckon for much with
your puny force, Liu Pei and Chuko Liang. How foolish of you to attempt
to shake Tʻaishan! I am now fifty-four and if I get Chiangnan I shall
have the wherewithal to rejoice. In the days of long ago the late noble
Chʻiao and I were great friends and we came to an agreement on certain
matters, for I knew his two daughters were lovely beyond words. Then by
some means they became wives to Sun Tsʻê and Chou Yü. But now my palace
of rest is built on the Chang River and victory over the south will
mean that I marry these two fair women. I will put them in my palace
and they shall rejoice my declining years. My desires will then be
completely attained.”
He smiled at the anticipation.
Tu Mu, a poet of the Tʻang Dynasty, in one poem says:—
A broken halberd buried in the sand,
With deep rust eaten.
Loud tells of ancient battles on the strand,
When Tsʻao was beaten.
Had eastern winds Chou’s plan refused to aid
And fan the flame,
Two captives fair, locked in the Bronze Bird’s shade,
Had gone to shame.
But suddenly amid the merriment was heard the hoarse cry of a raven
flying toward the south.
“Why does the raven thus cry in the night?” said Tsʻao to those about
him.
“The moon is so bright that he thinks it is day,” said they, “and so he
leaves his tree.”
Tsʻao laughed; by this time he was quite intoxicated. He set up his
spear in the prow of the ship and poured a libation into the river and
then drank three brimming goblets. As he lowered the spear he said,
“This is the spear that broke up the Yellow Turbans, captured Lü Pu,
destroyed Yüan Shao and subdued his brother, whose armies are now mine.
In the north it reached to Liaotung and it stretched out over the whole
south. It has never failed in its task. The present scene moves me to
the depths and I will sing a song in which you shall accompany me.”
And so he sang:—
When goblets are brimming then song is near birth,
But life is full short and has few days of mirth,
Life goes as the dew drops fly swiftly away,
’Neath the glance of the glowing hot ruler of day.
Man’s life may be spent in the noblest emprise,
But sorrowful thoughts in his heart oft arise.
Let us wash clean away the sad thoughts that intrude,
With bumpers of wine such as Tu Kʻang once brewed.
Gone is my day of youthful fire
And still ungained is my desire.
The deer feed on the level plain
And joyful call, then feed again.
My noble guests are gathered round,
The air is trilled with joyful sound.
Bright my future lies before me,
As the moonlight on this plain;
But I strive in vain to reach it
When shall I my wish attain?
None can answer; and so sadness
Grips my inmost heart again.
Far north and south,
Wide east and west,
We safety seek;
Vain is the quest.
Man’s heart oft yearns
For converse sweet,
And my heart burns
When old friends greet.
The stars are paled by the full moon’s light,
The raven wings his southward flight,
And thrice he circles round a tree,
No place thereon to rest finds he.
They weary not the mountains of great height,
The waters deep of depth do not complain,
Duke Chou no leisure found by day or night
Stern toil is his who would the Empire gain.
The song made they sang it with him and were all exceedingly merry;
save one guest who suddenly said, “When the great army is on the point
of battle and lives are about to be risked, why do you, O Minister,
speak such ill words?”
Tsʻao turned quickly toward the speaker, who was Liu Fu, the Governor
of Yangchou. This Liu sprang from Hofei. When first appointed to his
post he had gathered in the terrified and frightened people and
restored order. He had founded schools and encouraged the people to
till the land. He had long served under Tsʻao Tsʻao and rendered
valuable service.
When he spoke Tsʻao dropped his spear to the level and said, “What
ill-omened words did I use?”
“You spoke of the moon paling the stars and the raven flying southward
without finding a resting place. These are ill-omened words.”
“How dare you try to belittle my endeavour?” cried Tsʻao, very
wrathful; and with that he smote Liu Fu with his spear and slew him.
The assembly broke up and the guests dispersed in fear and confusion.
Next day, when he had recovered from his drunken bout, Tsʻao Tsʻao was
very grieved at what he had done and when the murdered man’s son came
to crave the body of his father for burial, Tsʻao wept and expressed
his sorrow.
“I am guilty of your father’s death; I was drunk yesterday. I regret
the deed exceedingly. Your father shall be interred with the honours of
a minister of the highest rank.”
He sent an escort of soldiers to take the body home for burial.
A few days after this the two leaders of the naval force came to say
the ships were all connected together by chains as had been ordered,
and all was now ready. They asked for the command to start.
Thereupon the leaders of both land and naval forces were assembled on
board a large ship in the centre of the squadron to receive orders. The
various armies and squadrons were distinguished by different flags, the
central naval squadron, yellow; the leading squadron, red; the rear
squadron, black; the left, blue, and the right, white. On shore the
horsemen had a red flag; for the vanguard, black; blue and white for
the rearguard and the wings respectively. Hsiahou Tun and Tsʻao Hung
were in reserve and the general staff was under the leadership of Hsü
Chʻu and Chang Liao. The other leaders were ordered to remain in camp,
but ready for action.
All being ready, the squadron drums beat the roll thrice and the ships
sailed out under a strong north-west wind on a trial cruise and when
they got among the waves they were found to be as steady and immoveable
as the dry land itself. The northern men showed their delight at the
absence of motion by capering and flourishing their weapons. The ships
moved on, the squadrons keeping quite distinct. Fifty light cruisers
sailed to and fro keeping order and urging progress.
Tsʻao Tsʻao watched his navy from the General’s terrace and was
delighted with their evolutions and manœuvres. Surely this meant
complete victory. He ordered the recall and the squadrons returned in
perfect order to their base.
Then Tsʻao Tsʻao went to his tent and summoned his advisers. He said,
“If Heaven had not been on my side, should I have got this excellent
plan from the Phoenix Chick? Now that the ships are attached firmly to
each other, one may traverse the river as easily as walking on firm
earth.”
“The ships are firmly attached to each other,” said Chʻêng Yü, “but you
should be prepared for an attack by fire so that they can scatter to
avoid it.”
The General laughed. “You look a long way ahead,” said he, “but you see
what cannot happen.”
“He speaks much to the point” said Hsün Yü, “why do you laugh at him?”
“Any one using fire depends upon the wind. This is now winter and only
west winds blow. You will get neither east nor south winds. I am on the
north-west and the enemy is on the south bank. If they use fire they
will destroy themselves. I have nothing to fear. If it was the tenth
moon, or early spring, I would provide against fire.”
“The Minister is indeed wise,” said the others in chorus. “None can
equal him.”
“With northern men unused to shipboard I could never have crossed the
river but for this plan,” said Tsʻao.
Then he saw two of the secondary leaders stand up and they said, “We
are from the north, but we are also sailors. Pray give us a small
squadron and we will seize some of the enemy’s flags and drums for you
that we may prove ourselves adepts on the water.”
The speakers were two men who had served under Yüan Shao, named Chiao
Chʻu and Chang Nan.
“I do not think naval work would suit you two, born and brought up in
the north,” said Tsʻao. “The Chiangnan men are thoroughly accustomed to
ships. You should not regard your lives as a child’s plaything.”
They cried, “If we fail, treat us according to army laws.”
“The fighting ships are all chained together, there are only small,
twenty-men boats free. They are unsuitable for fighting.”
“If we took large ships where would be the wonderful in what we will
do? No; give us a score of the small ships and we will take half each
and go straight to the enemy’s naval port. We will just seize a flag,
slay a leader and come home.”
“I will let you have the twenty ships and half a company of good,
vigorous men with long spears and stiff crossbows. Early to-morrow the
main fleet shall make a demonstration on the river and I will also tell
Wên Pʻing to support you with thirty ships.”
The two men retired greatly elated. Next morning, very early, food was
prepared and at the fifth watch all was ready for a start. Then from
the naval camp rolled out the drums and the gongs clanged, as the ships
moved out and took up their positions, the various flags fluttering in
the morning breeze. And the two intrepid leaders with their squadron of
small scouting boats went down the lines and out into the stream.
Now a few days before the sound of Tsʻao Tsʻao’s drums had been heard
on the southern bank and the watchers had seen their enemy’s fleet
manœuvring in the open river. Chou Yü had watched the manœuvres from
the top of a hill till the fleet had gone in again. So when the sound
of drums was again heard all the army went up the hills to watch the
fleet. All they saw was a squadron of small ships bounding over the
waves. But as they came nearer the news was taken to the leader who
called for volunteers to go out against them. Han Tang and Chou Tʻai
offered themselves. They were accepted and orders were issued to the
camps to remain ready for action but not to move till told.
Han and Chou sailed out each with a small squadron of five ships in
line.
The two braggarts from the north really only trusted to their boldness
and luck. Their ships came down under the powerful strokes of the oars
and as they neared the two leaders put on their heart-protectors,
gripped their spears and each took his station in the prow of the
leading ship of his division. Chiao’s ship led and as soon as he came
near enough his men began to shoot at Han Tang, who fended off the
arrows with his buckler. Chiao twirled his long spear as he engaged his
opponent. But, at the first thrust, he was killed.
His comrade with the other ships was coming up with great shouts when
Chou Tʻai sailed up at an angle and these two squadrons began shooting
arrows at each other in clouds. Chou Tʻai fended off the arrows with
his shield and stood gripping his sword firmly till his ships came
within a few feet of the enemy’s ships when he leaped across and cut
down Chang Nan. Chang’s dead body fell into the water. Then the battle
became confused and the attacking ships rowed hard to get away. The
southerners pursued but soon came in sight of Wên Pʻing’s supporting
fleet. Once more the ships engaged and the men fought with each other.
Chou Yü with his officers stood on the summit of a mountain and watched
his own and the enemy ships out on the river. The flags and the ensigns
were all in perfect order. Then he saw Wên Pʻing and his own fleets
engaged in battle and soon it was evident that the former was not a
match for his own sailors. Wên Pʻing turned about to retire, Chou and
Han pursued. Chou Yü fearing lest his sailors should go too far, then
hoisted the white flag of recall.
To his officers Chou Yü said, “The masts of their ships stand thick as
reeds; Tsʻao himself is full of wiles; how can we destroy him?”
No one replied, for just then the great yellow flag that flapped in the
breeze in the middle of Tsʻao’s fleet suddenly fell over into the
river.
Chou Yü laughed. “That is a bad omen,” said he.
Then an extra violent blast of wind came by and the waves rose high and
beat upon the bank. A corner of his own flag flicked Chou Yü on the
cheek and suddenly a thought flashed through his mind. He uttered a
loud cry, staggered and fell backward. They picked him up; there was
blood upon his lips and he was unconscious. Presently, however, he
revived.
And once he laughed, then gave a cry,
’Tis hard to ensure a victory.
Chou Yü’s fate will appear as the story unfolds.