Sandalwood Death: A Novel (Chinese Literature Today Book Series)

had read everything Lord Wenzheng had written many times, and he knew that a tight formation was an invitation to be wiped out by fortress defenders. He wished he’d given them a bit of basic training before heading into battle, but it was too late now. They pressed forward, drawing closer and closer to the wall, which appeared unmanned; but he knew by the puffs of smoke rising every few yards above the wall and the smell of porridge cooking that there were people on the other side. He had learned from Lord Wenzheng’s military writings that defenders of walls did not prepare pots of boiling porridge to satisfy their appetite; the real purpose was something he knew only too well, yet tried not to think about. His militiamen stopped when they were but a few yards from the protective wall, and began the attack—musketeers shooting their fowling pieces, archers letting their arrows fly. The anemic sound of gunfire—some twenty or so shots altogether—was no demonstration of military might. Then the guns fell silent. Some of the archers’ arrows had sailed over the wall; others were lucky to have made it to the wall, a showing that failed to match even that of the musketeers. It was more like a children’s game than anything. After firing their fowling pieces, the men knelt in place and reached for the powder horns hanging from their belts. The horns were actually bottle gourds coated with tung oil, which made them glossy and strikingly attractive. In earlier days, when the Magistrate had led his musketeers out searching for bandits and highwaymen, those twenty gleaming powder horns had been a source of pride. Now, seen alongside the Imperial Right Guard and German battle formations, they looked like toys. The kneeling men finished loading their fowling pieces with powder, fired off a second scattered volley, and stormed the fortified wall, filling the air with battle cries. Last year’s straw on the ten-foot gently sloped wall quivered under the onslaught of running feet. Or was it the County Magistrate’s quivering heart? A pair of palanquin bearers ran up carrying a ladder. Years of carrying a palanquin had left them with a prancing gait that was in evidence even now; they no longer knew how to actually run. Despite the fact that this was an assault against an enemy fortification, they moved as if they were carrying the County Magistrate’s chair through the countryside. As soon as they reached the wall, they leaned the ladder up against it, and still there was no sign of defenders; the Magistrate was prepared to thank his lucky stars. Now that the ladder was ready, the bearers steadied it for their comrades, who began climbing with their fowling pieces and their bows and arrows. Three men were on the ladder, the first having just about reached the top of the wall, when the heads of Boxers in red kerchiefs appeared on the other side; they dumped full pots of steaming porridge onto the county militiamen. The screams were like stakes driven into the Magistrate’s heart. At any minute, he felt, the accumulated filth in his colon would empty into his trousers, and he had to bite down on his lower lip to hold it in. He watched as his men fell backward into their comrades, who had already begun beating a chaotic, panicky retreat to the raucous delight of the Boxers on the wall. But then a regimental bugler gave a signal to the better-trained Imperial Right Guards, who shouldered their rifles and opened fire on the fortified wall.
    After watching the defenders repel the first assault on their fortification by the Imperial Right Guard with boiling water, hot porridge, homemade bombs, bricks, roof tiles, and rocks, even a couple of powerful and enormous local cannons, the Magistrate began to wonder if he had underestimated Sun Bing. Up till then, Sun had impressed him merely as a self-styled mystic; he had never entertained the thought that the man might actually be a military genius. Performing onstage had given him the same knowledge the Magistrate had acquired through extensive reading, and not just in military theories, but in practical applications that produced results. The Magistrate was comforted to see the mighty Imperial Right Guard suffer the same setback as his own ragtag militia; it was the sort of outcome he could almost revel in. As his anxieties vanished, they were replaced by resurgent courage and self-confidence. But now it was time for the Germans. He glanced at von Ketteler, who was training his