Volume Two: I Come to Shake Heaven and Earth Chapter 13: Heavenly Calculation I

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The rainy night was thick and impenetrable. On the Gaolians’ campgrounds, people moved to and fro, weaving through the gloom. The vanguard camp was nearly complete; the central and rear camps had begun to take shape. Officers, their heads adorned with two- or three-foot-tall golden-flower hats, braved wind and rain, shouting out hoarse commands. Sub-commanders and assistant generals, astride their horses splattered with mud, ceaselessly urged the troops to speed up the fortifications.

Amid layers of tents, two armor-clad generals ascended the hastily constructed watchtower. A flash of lightning revealed the black, shadowy outlines of the Twin Cities.

“Commander, do you think the Red Turban rebels will attack again tonight?” The one who spoke appeared to be about thirty, with a leopard-like visage, round eyes, and a face covered in bristling beard; yet his speech and manner bore a trace of scholarly refinement. His name was Kim Depei, a Jinshi degree-holder, now serving as Supreme Commander of the Northwest.

At his side stood Gyeong Cheon-heung, commander-in-chief of the Western Capital’s army; a short man, whose voice boomed like thunder the moment he spoke. “Our army has been here a full day and night. The Red Turbans must already know that Dingzhou is besieged. To break the encirclement, how could they not attack?” He looked up at the sky. “It’s almost the end of the Hour of the Dog…” He gave a soft grunt. “An hour at most before the rebels arrive.”

“Commander’s insight is keen.” Kim Depei narrowed his eyes, peering toward the camp’s front, but the pouring rain and thick darkness revealed nothing. He wore a worried expression. “The thousand-strong Red Turban cavalry that attacked last night fought valiantly. I faced them in battle and saw their leader’s superb horsemanship and archery—he shot down three of our officers in short order. Only by relying on our fortifications and coordinating our cavalry did we barely hold the line. The burden of blocking their advance is heavy indeed.”

“We have too few cavalry. Otherwise, would we let the rebels come and go so easily?” Gyeong Cheon-heung saluted southward toward the royal capital. “Years of floods and droughts, Japanese pirates running rampant—we’ve sent twenty thousand troops into the field, and the royal treasury is sorely strained. We can only hope to crush the Red Turbans quickly and ease our king’s anxieties.”

Kim Depei nodded in agreement. When the Goryeo king was Crown Prince, it was customary for him to serve as a guard in the Yuan court—Kim had accompanied him then. In the army, his rank was below Gyeong Cheon-heung, but in terms of personal closeness to the king, he surpassed him. Kim understood the court’s predicament more deeply.

Leaving aside natural disasters and the ceaseless factional strife at court, the problem of Japanese pirates alone was grave. From the year before last to now, there had been no fewer than a hundred invasions—villages burned, grain convoys looted, people abducted. Just last month, several hundred pirates raided Jeolla Province, stole tens of thousands of bushels of rice, and killed more than three hundred people.

At its worst, in the previous two years, the royal capital had twice declared martial law because of the pirates. Last year, so much of the tax grain was lost to raids that the court could not even pay the salaries of officials or the army’s rations. Only by converting sea transport to land routes and moving coastal granaries inland did conditions improve.

Thinking of this, Kim’s worries deepened. “According to the Dingzhou reports, the rebels launched repeated assaults during the day but failed to breach the walls, even losing their fierce general Bahuer.”

This “Commander Li” was Li Yan, Chief Steward of the Secretariat, currently Supreme Commander of the Northwest and joint commander of the allied army.

Gyeong Cheon-heung scoffed, “Li is a scholar-official. In writing and rhetoric I will gladly defer, but when it comes to leading troops…” He laughed derisively and left the sentence unfinished. Before becoming Deputy Commander of the Northwest, he had served as Prefect of the Western Capital’s military-civilian commandery and as Inspector-General of the Northwest; Kim Depei had been Deputy Prefect and later Magistrate of the Western Capital. They were old colleagues, accustomed to speaking frankly.

Kim fell silent. Li Yan’s appointment was a matter for the court—he himself was of different standing. With a sigh, he changed the subject. “Man proposes, Heaven disposes. Heaven favors our Goryeo this time. I think Li’s strategy is sound enough; Dingzhou will fall sooner or later.”

“Heaven’s favor, indeed.” Gyeong Cheon-heung nodded. “As soon as our army assembled, the weather changed—rains and gales let us slip across the river unseen, approaching the city before the Red Turbans even knew it. That is surely Heaven’s aid.” He curled his lip. “Dingzhou’s walls are low and weak. The rebels lack the advantage of weather, terrain, or popular support. If you or I commanded, the city would have fallen by now. But with Li in charge? Hmph.”

Kim refused to be drawn into this quarrel and returned to immediate military affairs. “Our lines are set. What countermoves can we expect from the rebels? And what will the Twin Cities’ garrison do?”

Gyeong Cheon-heung, seasoned and adept, replied without hesitation, “If Dingzhou falls, the Twin Cities cannot hold. They will not sit by idly.”

“And how will they respond?”

“Shankou’s county troops, though well-positioned, are weakest. The rebels’ best move is to attack Shankou with all their strength—cutting off our communication and taking a long detour to launch a surprise relief.”

On the battlefield, it was always a matter of guessing the opponent’s intentions. Gyeong Cheon-heung, though blunt by nature, was painstaking about military matters.

Kim asked, “How should we counter that?”

“First, keep the road to Shankou open. Second, if we do lose Shankou, we simply stand fast. I can return to reinforce Dingzhou in half a day; the rebels, exhausted by their forced march, will face our well-rested troops. No matter what tricks they try, they cannot escape our long-snake formation.”

“A fine plan. But the rebels may see through it.” Kim, ever thorough, considered another angle. “Commander, have you thought that the rebels might try the sea route? We have only five hundred ambushers on the coast; there are bound to be gaps in our defenses.”

“Even if a few sneak through, it will not change the outcome,” Gyeong Cheon-heung replied unconcerned. “The real threat from the coast is not infiltration, but a major assault. If that happens, our main force can support at once.”

Kim considered this. “True. If both the Shankou and coastal routes are blocked, the rebels…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “With Shankou’s troops supporting us, the rebels wouldn’t be fool enough to sally forth en masse and attack our main camp.”

Gyeong Cheon-heung, in fact, hoped the Red Turbans would attack. His orders upon leaving the Western Capital were strict: hold the Dingzhou-Twin Cities line; when Dingzhou falls, lead the vanguard in concert with Li’s forces to storm the Twin Cities. Though not spelled out, the implication was clear—do not act rashly before Dingzhou is taken. He had to obey the royal command, though he despised Li’s timidity and felt some resentment. Still, the command only forbade him to attack, not to counterattack. If the Red Turbans came, it would be a golden opportunity.

Intelligence suggested the Red Turbans numbered no more than ten thousand—five or six thousand at Dingzhou, six at most in the Twin Cities. They were said to have excellent firearms and plenty of cavalry, but in this downpour, with muddy roads, those advantages vanished. Truly, a heaven-sent chance.

Outside the watchtower, rain fell ceaselessly, earth and sky joined in deluge. Kim’s words stirred Gyeong Cheon-heung’s interest. He pondered: if the rebels did sally forth, could he exploit the opportunity to counterattack—perhaps even seize the Twin Cities before Li Yan arrived?

Lost in thought, he heard Kim give a soft exclamation and step forward. “Commander, as you predicted—the rebels are coming again.”

Looking up, Gyeong Cheon-heung could not see clearly at such distance. Shapes loomed indistinctly, a mass of shadow and movement. Banners bristled; by rough estimate, there were one or two thousand infantry. Soldiers in the vanguard emerged from their shelters, gripping weapons; the assistant generals’ raucous shouts carried faintly through the rain.

Kim bowed. “The rebels are sending infantry this time, not cavalry—their assault is weaker than before. Commander, observe from above; I will take command on the front line.” He turned and hurried down. Though his rank was lower, and though he was favored by the king, Kim always led from the front.

Gyeong Cheon-heung, confident in the camp’s strength, remained at his post, watching the battle unfold.

His camp was perfectly positioned at the narrowest point of the east-west corridor. Five thousand men in three concentric camps: the vanguard was heaviest, the central camp moderate, the rear lightest. In a flash of lightning, two great banners on the tower stood out: one read, “Deputy Commander of the Northwest, Gyeong”; the other, “Supreme Commander of the Northwest, Kim.”

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The soldiers building the central and rear camps, in case of emergency, halted their work. Under their squad leaders’ orders, they formed up as reserves. Those resting in the camp were assigned to a second echelon, ready to reinforce the front. Kim Depei, swift as ever, descended from the tower, mounted his horse, and rode straight for the vanguard. The Red Turbans were even faster—before Kim reached the front, Gyeong Cheon-heung saw the rebels already closing, both sides loosing hails of arrows.

The wind had faded but the rain was thick, the night black as pitch. Arrows flew wildly off target. The Red Turbans’ front ranks raised half-man-high shields, advancing slowly under cover. The Gaolians, prepared for siege, set up their catapults—these had fended off Lu Qian’s cavalry the night before to good effect. Now, with a great creak, the engines hurled stones dozens of pounds in weight, whistling through the rain into the rebel ranks.

At that distance, the screams were faint. Gyeong Cheon-heung, gripping the rail, pictured the carnage with a smile.

By firelight from the front, he saw the Red Turban banner wave. A detachment halted before the camp, splitting off hundreds of men pushing rams, protected by half-hulks of boats, bent low, rushing to fill the moat. The moat had only been dug that day, not very deep. Some stumbled on iron caltrops hidden in the mud, wounding their feet and falling behind. The formation grew ragged.

Several four-wheeled catapults rolled forward with the Red Turban advance, adjusting range. Heavy crossbows opened fire on the half-boat shields, flipping them now and then. The Red Turbans’ own crossbowmen braved the arrow storm to shoot back. Any Goryeo soldier struck was immediately carried off the field.

Kim reached the front, dismounted, and exchanged urgent words with a subordinate. That officer saluted and slipped away; soon, a side gate swung open, and a hundred elite cavalry, bows drawn, wheeled out to harass the rebels’ flank at a distance.

Again, the Red Turban banner waved, and before the cavalry could close, the rebels dragged their wounded away in retreat. Even from afar, Gyeong Cheon-heung could see bodies scattered before the camp, rain pooling in great red splotches across the ground, stark in the torchlight.

The rain was heavy, but cavalry could manage short sprints. The Gaolians, though outnumbered in horsemen, enjoyed the advantage of defense. Their victorious repulse was met by cheers throughout the camp; the cavalry wheeled back in triumph.

The rebels paused. The catapults lobbed a few more stones before withdrawing several hundred meters, as if wary. Before long, they attacked again—this time only a few hundred strong, fewer than before. Clearly, only the boldest and fiercest were chosen for this sortie.

Gyeong Cheon-heung noted that after each attack by the vanguard, the main body of rebels slowly withdrew, vanishing into the darkness from his vantage. While the front line was closer, he stood higher and had sharper eyes; he guessed Kim saw much the same.

“Trying to use the rainy night for a feint?” Gyeong Cheon-heung thought. The rebel general tonight was clearly inferior to last night’s—such childish tricks! He surveyed his lines with satisfaction. After a day and night’s toil, his five thousand men could easily hold out against two thousand attackers.

His judgment was soon confirmed. The main rebel force emerged on the right of the camp gate, only to be met by a blizzard of Goryeo arrows and crossbow bolts, beaten back before they could engage.

At the gate, the assaulting rebels too fell back, unable to endure. The two defeated columns mingled in confusion, banners trailing, retreating in utter disorder.

Gyeong Cheon-heung waited a while, but saw no pursuit—he knew Kim had not given the order. It had been the same last night. When the Red Turban cavalry fled, a sub-commander had suggested pursuit, but Kim refused: “We’re new to the field; caution is best. Besides, our cavalry can’t catch theirs.”

Last night, this was wise; but tonight was different—the attackers were infantry, and pursuit would have taught them a lesson. Still, with Kim’s earlier warning, Gyeong Cheon-heung had other thoughts now, and let the idea go.

As he pondered, Kim returned to the tower. Gyeong Cheon-heung laughed, “General Kim, you’ve worked hard—two nights now you’ve repelled the Red Turban assaults, a fine achievement.” But seeing Kim’s troubled look, he fell silent, waiting.

“Commander, I noticed something odd in the rebels’ camp.”

“What did you see?”

Kim removed his helmet, took a towel from his aide, and wiped his rain-soaked face. “Before I reached the front, I saw a dense array of banners—surely two thousand men. But up close, their main body looked less substantial, somehow not quite two thousand.”

“How so?”

Kim recalled, “Three doubts. First, despite supposedly having two thousand, each assault sent only three or four hundred—fewer the second time. Second, the main body feinted but withdrew well before the moat—too obvious an act. Third, compared to last night’s thousand cavalry, tonight’s larger force attacked with noticeably less vigor.”

He concluded, “I believe the rebels are putting on a show.”

Though his field view was similar to Gyeong Cheon-heung’s, Kim’s intuition on the enemy’s intent was keener—one sensed feigned attacks more directly on the front line.

“A show?” Gyeong Cheon-heung, after years as Kim’s partner, trusted his judgment. Frowning, he said, “You mean the rebels aren’t trying to breach the camp…” He thought of another possibility. “But to lure us out and ambush us?” He regretted not leaving the tower to organize a counterattack.

A messenger rode up, escorted by guards. “Report from Dingzhou, sirs.” As agreed, reports arrived twice daily.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Reporting, Deputy Commander and Supreme Commander: This afternoon’s assault breached the west wall with our catapults. The rebel leader rallied his men and fought desperately with several fierce generals. Among them, one tattooed—a ‘Tiger’ to the rebels—was especially brave, almost unstoppable. We were repulsed. Commander Li personally oversaw the attack and penetrated three feet into the city, but heavy rain and slippery walls, with weak reinforcements, led to failure.”

The wall was breached, yet still they could not enter? Gyeong Cheon-heung turned away in contempt. Kim, full of regret, asked, “Did they attack again tonight?”

“Commander Li said after a day and night’s fighting, with hundreds dead or wounded, the men are exhausted. They will rest tonight and launch a massive attack at dawn—determined to destroy the west wall and take the city within two days.”

Resting at night—wasn’t that giving the Red Turbans a chance to repair the walls? Kim was deeply disappointed, and seeing Gyeong Cheon-heung’s growing anger, hastily restrained himself and placed a hand on his arm. The messenger was a trusted aide of the commander; showing anger before him would only breed rumors of discord—fatal for an army.

Kim forced a smile. “Commander Li’s concerns are valid. The rebels are desperate; a pause is not unwise.” Knowing Li would not heed him, he could not help adding, “Still, I have a suggestion. Please tell Commander Li: since the wall is breached and both sides are exhausted, why not press the attack through the night and seize the advantage? It’s only my humble opinion, but I leave it to his judgment.”

The messenger nodded and asked Gyeong Cheon-heung, “Any report for the commander?”

Kim answered, “We’ve just repelled a Red Turban night attack—all is well. Shankou’s troops sent word two hours ago: no enemy in sight.”

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The messenger noted this and departed.

Gyeong Cheon-heung spat after him, “A fine general, yet timid as a hen! ‘Take the city in two days’—spit!”

His disdain for Li Yan had its reasons. Three years ago during the assault on the Twin Cities, the general in command—like Li, a noble scholar—had led the army with the utmost caution, halting two hundred li from the target. If not for Li Zichun’s approach and offer to act as an inside agent, the opportunity would have slipped away. Yet upon returning to court, that general was not only unpunished but promoted and ennobled.

With such appointments at court, how could the pirate menace in the south not grow worse?

His anger mounting, Kim tried to placate him: “Commander, you know the state of the court. China is in chaos. Though our king wishes to reform and has even abolished the Yuan’s Zhizheng reign title three years ago, the factions at court are tangled and complex. Sometimes, a little forbearance is necessary.” To distract him, Kim returned to the earlier topic. “The rebels’ feint—I believe…”

He was interrupted by his aide; another report had arrived. The coastal outpost had spotted a Red Turban detachment, five or six hundred strong. The two forces met briefly before the rebels withdrew. Scouts reported the rebels did not return to the Twin Cities, but lingered as if still seeking to cross the sea.

“Before I came, the rebels had stopped at a fishing village, with strict security. Our scouts couldn’t approach, but from afar saw a constant trickle of reinforcements arriving from the Twin Cities in small groups. One of these included a general with a golden hammer—he showed himself outside the camp.”

The Red Turban leader had two trusted lieutenants—one trapped at Dingzhou, the other with him at the Twin Cities, famed for his golden hammer. Gyeong Cheon-heung and Kim exchanged glances. “Were you sure you saw him?”

“With the rain at night, the golden hammer was eye-catching, and he wore a gold chain at his waist. Our scouts are confident.”

Kim asked, “Did the number of banners in the fishing village increase?”

“No, but the rear gate opened from time to time, and we saw torchlight and squads of soldiers entering. Red Turban scouts ranged along the coast.”

“An open assault on our camp, but quietly reinforcing the coast—could the rebels be planning to cross by sea to assist Dingzhou?” If the entire rebel force struck the coast, built rafts, and ferried three or four thousand men, it was not impossible. With weak naval defenses, they might break through. If the rebels circled behind the army at Dingzhou by sea, it would be a grave problem.

But then Kim thought, “If the rebel assault on the camp is a feint, could the fishing village be a feint also?” He hesitated to draw conclusions. A single feint was plausible, but two at once—could their real aim be Shankou?

Unable to fathom the enemy, Gyeong Cheon-heung issued swift orders: “Send elite scouts to infiltrate the area around the Twin Cities—see if any troops have left. Also dispatch messengers to contact Shankou.”

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1. Golden-flower hats:
Goryeo soldiers wore “...iron armor joined at top and bottom, golden-flower hats nearly three feet tall, brocade robes of blue with sashes and hanging skirts. As the people are short, they wear tall hats and splendid robes to enhance their appearance.”

2. Japanese pirates and disasters:
The earliest records of Japanese pirates (wakō) in Goryeo date to around 1280. By 1350, “In February, pirates raided Goseong, Jukju, Geoje, and Hapcheon; this was the beginning of large-scale pirate invasions.” In the fifth year of King Gongmin, May, “Pirates attacked Jodong; the capital was placed under martial law.” Jodong: An island at the northern end of Ganghwa Island. In the sixth year, April: “Pirates burned Jodong; capital under martial law, local levies dispatched as soldiers.” October: “Great famine in the northeast.” In the seventh year, summer, April: “Great drought,” “relief sent to the northeast.” May: “Relief to Gyoju and Gangneung; military rations exhausted, campaign against pirates called off.”

3. Switching from river to overland transport:
Pirate raids in the south were frequent, with fleets of dozens or even hundreds of ships. For example, in April 1354, “Pirates seized over forty grain ships in Jeolla Province”; in April 1355, “Pirates seized over two hundred ships”; in March 1358, “Pirates burned over three hundred ships at Jaksan Outpost.” In response, King Gongmin decreed, “The waterways are impassable; all transport shall go by land.” Later, “coastal granaries were moved inland.”

4. Iron-feathered arrows:
Crossbow bolts with iron vanes. When Toqto attacked Zhima Li, “The army camped at Xuzhou and attacked the west gate. The rebels came out and shot at the horses’ heads with iron-feathered arrows. Toqto was undeterred, urging his men to attack—the enemy was routed and the outer city captured.” Though firearms existed by then, crossbows and ballistae were still widely used. Goryeo’s weaponry was generally similar to China’s.

5. Four-wheeled catapults:
Mounting catapults on four-wheeled carriages made them mobile and easy to redeploy—these were called “cart-cannons.”