Chapter Fifty-Three: The Crimson Battle Banner

Chen Ying originally believed that by diverting the taxes from Xixian’s treasury, he could perfectly resolve the shortage of armor and weapons. Yet, after scouring the entire city—short of smashing up every iron pot—they managed to gather just over three thousand catties of iron.

This total of a little more than three thousand catties even included the arms and armor seized from rebel bandits on the battlefield; otherwise, the shortfall would have been even greater. But this was merely iron, not steel. If they were to forge weapons, forty percent of the iron would be lost in the process, leaving less than two thousand catties of usable material. If they crafted shining armor, they could produce at most a hundred suits; for broadswords, only about two hundred blades.

In truth, Chen Ying’s expectations were somewhat idealistic. This era was not like future times. Even at the Tang dynasty’s peak during the early years of the Kaiyuan era, the entire nation’s steel production was only ten million catties. Though ten million sounds substantial, it is just five thousand tons—less than what a small, modern iron foundry could produce in a single month.

According to the Tang army’s standardized structure, the four primary troop types—spearmen, swords and shields, archers and crossbowmen, and light cavalry—would require, for Chen Ying’s current five full-strength battalions, nearly four hundred broadswords and six hundred sets of armor, as well as six hundred halberds and spears. As for shields, at least four hundred would be needed. In reality, however, these three thousand catties of iron, no matter how allocated, fell far short of meeting the requirements.

Just as Chen Ying was at his wit’s end, he suddenly noticed an ironworker, over fifty years old, with dark, leathery skin, hammering away at a steel billet with the help of two apprentices. The pounding was chaotic, but gradually the billet took shape. Chen Ying was momentarily stunned.

The billet the ironworker forged was rectangular, arched in the middle, curved at the sides, flat at the front, and rounded at the back.

Chen Ying stared in puzzlement. What on earth was this?

Although Chen Ying was no expert in ancient weaponry—he couldn’t name all the classic eighteen weapons—he was certain that this billet was nothing like any of them.

The burly blacksmith slapped his forehead in frustration. “Ah! My mind must be slipping. I’m so used to making these that out of habit I’ve made a hoe by mistake!”

“Wait!”

In that instant, Chen Ying thought of a solution.

At the end of the Ming dynasty, the native chieftain Ma Qiancheng and his wife Qin Liangyu recruited young men from their hometown in Shizhu and formed a renowned force called the White-Pole Troops. These soldiers fought bloody battles at the Hun River, reclaimed four cities beyond the pass, and inflicted heavy losses on the Eight Banners Army, earning fame across the land. Back when Ma Qiancheng formed the White-Pole Troops, he too lacked the means to equip his men with fine armor and weapons, so he had to make do with whatever was available.

A typical spear required only four ounces of iron for the blade—cheap, but not particularly effective. When faced with well-armored or heavily equipped foes, such spears were nearly useless. Halberds, while more lethal, were too expensive to supply in large numbers. The compromise was the hooked sickle spear of the White-Pole Troops.

It was said that these soldiers used sturdy white wood poles, fitted with a bladed hook and a strong iron ring at the end. In battle, the hook could slash or pull, while the ring could be used for hammering. If necessary, dozens of such spears could be joined by their hooks and rings to form ladders for scaling cliffs and walls—perfect for mountain warfare.

They were about to march into Shizhou to suppress a rebellion. Shizhou was the ancient Jianmen Pass, a land of mountains and ravines. Equipping his men with White-Pole hooked sickle spears would be the optimal choice.

Wei Wenzhong had been fretting over how to obtain steel for armor and weapons. Now this dim-witted blacksmith had made a hoe by mistake, and Wei Wenzhong was about to explode in anger.

But Chen Ying suddenly grabbed Wei Wenzhong’s arm. “What’s your name?”

The blacksmith, though of low status, was sharp-eyed. Although he didn’t know Chen Ying’s rank, he could tell from the respect others showed him that this was no ordinary man.

He saluted Chen Ying repeatedly. “This humble one is named Hu Dogstick!”

“Hu Dogstick!” On hearing this, Chen Ying nearly choked on his own saliva. He wanted to laugh, but didn’t want to embarrass the man, so he held it in, composing himself before asking, “How did you get such a name?”

Hu Dogstick seemed used to this and answered calmly, “My father and mother were fleeing famine. When my mother gave birth to me, all they had was a dog-beating stick. So my father named me Dogstick.”

Chen Ying said, “Let me give you a new name. The stick is a staff—the philosopher Mencius once said: ‘If a king implements benevolent governance, reduces punishments, lowers taxes, and promotes diligent farming, then the strong, with their free time, will cultivate filial piety and loyalty, serve their elders at home, their superiors abroad, and can wield the staff to strike the hardened armies of Qin and Chu.’ The staff is the weapon of the poor; and a dog, like a guard, serves as a protector. From now on, you shall be called Hu Weiping—the Guardian Soldier Hu!”

Hu Dogstick immediately knelt, overjoyed. “Thank you, General, for bestowing this name!”

“Rise.”

“Yes, sir!”

“How are your skills?”

“Humbly, there’s no one within several leagues better than old Hu…” The newly named Hu Weiping suddenly caught himself, embarrassed.

“Can you forge hooked sickle spears?”

“Well…” Hu Weiping hesitated.

It was understandable—he’d never heard of such a weapon. In fact, the hooked sickle spear was a development from the ancient halberd, coming into its own in the Song dynasty.

Chen Ying, recalling its appearance, found a slender piece of charcoal to use as a pencil and a sheet of paper, and sketched out the hooked sickle spear. He was no artist, and the drawing was rough, but it conveyed the basic idea.

Hu Weiping, though not literate, was clever. After pondering it for half a day, he managed to forge a passable hooked sickle spear. It required only twenty-six ounces of iron for the spearhead, meaning the existing iron stock could produce over a thousand—just enough to meet the urgent need.

With the equipment problem provisionally solved, Chen Ying began to assemble the troops for an address.

The Second Merit Battalion was now at full strength. The veteran soldiers were elated—no longer mere paper officers, they finally had real men to command. Chen Ying assigned the new recruits among the battalions; what had been only four hollow units now became five: the First, Second, and Third Merit Battalions, the Archers, and the Cavalry, each with three companies of three hundred men. With the addition of the Guard Company, the total force was 1,573 men.

Chen Ying cleared his throat. “Comrades, you have all seen the rebel bandits for what they are—a pack of heartless mongrels who spare not even newborn infants. There’s nothing more to say—when you meet the enemy, cut them down without mercy!”

“Cut them down without mercy!” the soldiers shouted in unison.

Especially the new recruits, all local men whose homes and families had been devastated by the rebellion; their hatred ran deep.

“But—” Chen Ying drew out the word, his voice suddenly rising, “we are here to suppress a rebellion, not to die in vain. So keep your wits about you and train hard. Don’t go running onto the battlefield only to lose your nerve…”

Outside Xixian, more than 1,500 soldiers gripped their new white-pole spears and threw themselves into intense training. Little did Chen Ying realize that this unplanned move would create the only true mountain warfare blood-steel force of the Tang dynasty. Twelve years later, when Tibet invaded the empire, this very White-Pole Army would march five hundred li in three days, setting a record for forced marches in their era. Without rest, they would enter battle immediately and win twelve consecutive engagements, shattering twelve Tibetan formations. From then on, the sight of their blood-red banner would send the Tibetan army fleeing.

Seven days later, on the twelfth day of the tenth month, first year of Wude, the thousand-odd hooked sickle spears were ready, and Chen Ying distributed them to his men. Outside Xixian, more than 1,500 soldiers, carrying seven days’ rations, stood in full readiness.

Chen Ying stood before the army. Liang Zan brought cattle and sheep, presenting them for the ritual slaughter to consecrate the battle flag.

Just then, a slow-moving ox cart emerged from the city gate, bearing a corpse covered with a white cloth. Chen Ying strode forward. “What’s this about?”

The woman driving the cart was clad in mourning, her face full of sorrow.

Liang Zan approached Chen Ying. “General, the auspicious hour is nearly past. If we miss it, Heaven will be angered!”

Chen Ying brushed him aside.

The mourning woman choked out, “My husband didn’t make it…”

Chen Ying tore the white cloth from the corpse. Hatred blazed in the widow’s eyes.

Among the Chinese people, the dead are honored above all; disturbing the deceased is an unforgivable offense. Were Chen Ying not a general, the woman might have attacked him then and there.

Under the bewildered gazes of all, Chen Ying slowly drew his broadsword and sliced a cut across his palm, letting his blood drip onto the white cloth, staining it a deep crimson.

He shouted, “With my blood, I dedicate myself to our ancestors! Blood debts must be paid in blood!”

Seeing this, Liang Zan drew his dagger, cut his own palm, and echoed, “With my blood, I dedicate myself to our ancestors! Blood debts must be paid in blood!”

Duan Zhigan, captain of the First Merit Battalion, joined in: “With my blood, I dedicate myself to our ancestors! Blood debts must be paid in blood!”

“With my blood, I dedicate myself to our ancestors! Blood debts must be paid in blood!” All 1,500 soldiers roared the slogan as well. The once white shroud became a blood-red battle flag.

This flag, unmarked by any character, snapped and fluttered in the wind.

Chen Ying, leading more than 1,500 soldiers, marched with resolute steps toward the city of Shizhou.