Chapter Two: Defeat at Yanghe

Crawling through piles of corpses, the two of them managed to reach a grass marsh more than three miles away. The young man, wary as ever, paused at the edge, lying still and listening. Only after confirming there were no enemy soldiers hidden within did he lead the eunuch, Guo, into the marsh.

It was July, the grass within was lush and green, and after a recent heavy rain, water flooded the marsh, leaving no dry ground at all. They had no choice but to continue crawling through mud and water. From their vantage point earlier, the marsh had seemed small, but once inside, they realized how vast it truly was. At first, both feared discovery and stayed low, but as they ventured deeper, they dared to stand and walk. Yet even as night fell, they had not reached the edge of the marsh.

Compared to the endless heaps of corpses outside, which had sickened them to the core, the marsh itself proved a different kind of hell. The snakes they encountered were not even the worst; as long as they made enough noise, the snakes slithered away without attacking. The real torment came from swarms of mosquitoes that buzzed relentlessly, refusing to be driven off. Within moments, both their bodies were covered in itchy, red welts. No matter how they slapped at the mosquitoes, new ones quickly settled.

Mosquitoes in this marsh were larger than elsewhere, their incessant buzzing irritating beyond measure. The young man pressed on, enduring the discomfort, but Guo the eunuch could go no further. Crawling and walking all this way, witnessing the defeat of their army, watching countless soldiers die before his eyes, and nearly ending his own life, Guo was on the verge of collapse. Now, with the immediate threat gone and no more gruesome bodies in sight, his guard dropped, and exhaustion overtook him. He sank to the ground, muttering, “I can’t go on, I can’t go on, I can’t walk anymore. Let me rest, let me rest…”

The young man turned to see Guo sitting in a puddle, gasping, clearly unwilling to take another step. He urged, “Master Guo, if you don’t keep moving, you’ll be sucked dry by mosquitoes before dawn.”

Guo forced a bitter smile and shook his head, “I truly can’t go on. I’m old, not like you young men. Let the mosquitoes drain me—it’ll save me the trouble of dying from exhaustion.” He recalled the story of Chancellor Hu Weiyong, who, under Emperor Taizu’s orders during the Hongwu era, was left naked and bound in the forest to die from mosquito bites. The thought of his blood being drained chilled Guo, but he truly lacked the strength to stand, otherwise he would have staggered onward.

Seeing Guo’s refusal, the young man grew anxious, “Master Guo, you must summon your strength. If you collapse here, what was the point of all our efforts to escape?”

Guo did not reply, only sighed deeply. As a eunuch, his sigh etched every wrinkle into his face. The young man’s heart softened; though Guo Jing was foolish and greedy, he was still an old man, over sixty. In later times, sixty might not seem so old, but in the Ming Dynasty, it made him a venerable elder. The defeat at Yanghe could be blamed on Guo’s misguided leadership, but the arrogant and ill-prepared Datong border troops, their ignorance of the enemy, and falling into Wala’s ambush were major factors. Moreover, the actual command fell to Song Ying, the Marquis of Xining, and those who led the fighting were Zhu Mian, Marquis of Wu Jin, and Shi Heng, Assistant Commander. Guo Jing’s main role was as military overseer, so it would be unfair to blame the disaster solely on him.

For all Guo Jing’s faults, the young man felt little real resentment toward him. Though bringing Guo along was a burden, abandoning the old eunuch to save himself was out of the question. Ever since he realized he had arrived in the fourteenth year of the Ming Dynasty’s Zhengtong era, on the eve of the Catastrophe at Tumu Fortress, in Shanxi’s Datong garrison, he understood he had no other choice. His sole task was to try to change the outcome of the coming battle.

He had no other options—for he was a Han Chinese. Yet the young man whose body he now inhabited, Lu Qing, was merely a minor officer of the Datong branch of the Embroidered Guards, officially assigned as a scout to the border army. In reality, he was no different from those soldiers whose lives were tied to their pay and whose heads hung by a thread. With his rank, meeting any important figures to influence the outcome of Tumu Fortress was impossible; he could not even see the commander of his own branch.

What could a lowly guard do, unable to meet the powerful? Nothing but drift with the tide and try to survive.

And how could he expect those in power to trust his “judgment”—based on centuries of history? How could a pawn tip the scales of fate? If he spoke of the disaster yet to come, no one would believe him, and he would be accused of spreading dangerous rumors—his head would roll before anything changed. Since the moment he entered this body, he had searched for a way out, but as a border soldier, he had no power to influence events. The wheels of history rolled on: half a month ago, the Wala Grand Preceptor, Esen, united the Mongols and various tribes, invading Ming territory in three directions. Esen himself led the central force, attacking Datong; the nominal Khan, Tuo Tuo Bu Hua, led his troops from Wuliang Ha into Liaodong; another leader, Ala, pressed into Xuanfu.

The glory of the Hongwu and Yongle eras was gone. Those soldiers and generals left by Taizu and Taizong were old or dead; the Ming army no longer matched its former strength. When Esen’s force reached Mao’er Zhuang (present-day Chahar Right Front Banner in Inner Mongolia), Ming General Wu Hao faced them and was defeated, dying in battle. Six days later, Esen’s troops were at Datong’s gates. Song Ying, Marquis of Xining, overseeing Datong’s defense, rashly led tens of thousands of Ming troops to confront Esen sixty miles from Datong at Yanghekou, without clear intelligence.

As a border soldier, Lu Qing had no grounds for desertion; in modern times, one could take leave from work, but now, military law was strict—a coward in battle could be executed on the spot. With no way out, Lu Qing had to march to Yanghekou with the army.

The battle at Yanghekou, on the eve of the Tumu Fortress disaster, was barely recorded in later histories. Historians gave it little ink, and no one knew how the defeat unfolded, except that Shi Heng, who escaped, became famous, while all other participants vanished from history. Lu Qing, no history expert, could recall the earth-shattering Tumu Fortress event, but knew little about the preceding battle at Yanghekou.

To confront Esen’s Wala army, Song Ying deployed Datong’s best troops—over forty thousand foot and horse. Based on past Wala incursions, he assumed Esen’s force would not exceed twenty thousand, and that they would not invade deeply, only raid the border towns to gain leverage for negotiations. After all, Wala was not the threat the Northern Yuan posed during Hongwu and Yongle; it was but a remnant, limited in strength. Even if Esen was a capable leader, he could not challenge Ming’s overwhelming power. This invasion, Song Ying believed, was mere posturing.

With this mindset, Song Ying feared nothing. Outnumbering the enemy two to one, Ming commanders believed they might not win a great victory, but certainly could keep Esen at bay, preventing him from entering Datong. This optimism spread to the officers and soldiers, most of whom believed this would be a minor skirmish—at most, a brief probe, a few heads taken, enough to satisfy the court and all ranks.

To be sober while others are drunk is not a delight, but a torment. Even with scant knowledge of this battle, Lu Qing knew the Ming army could not have fared well, or else Esen would not later besiege the emperor and force a humiliating ransom—the second time since the Northern Song’s Jingkang disaster that a Han emperor was captured.

Ming surely lost at Yanghe, but Lu Qing did not know how badly. He thought the defeat would not be catastrophic, otherwise Esen would have seized Datong outright.

Lu Qing remembered clearly that Esen, with the captive Emperor Yingzong, tried to extort Datong in vain. If Datong had fallen, extortion would be pointless.

That Datong remained intact after Yanghe’s defeat meant the elite border troops were not all lost; at least, enough survived to retreat and hold the city. As long as the Yanghekou force was not annihilated, Lu Qing felt reassured. He might not be able to change history, but at least he was ready to run at the first sign of disaster—he refused to die at Yanghekou!

But the battle’s ferocity and Ming’s losses far exceeded his expectations. When the Ming troops arrived at Yanghekou, the Wala army was already arrayed. Before Ming could even settle, Wala launched a massive assault. Zhu Mian’s vanguard cavalry collapsed within minutes; Shi Heng’s force was surrounded soon after, and he disappeared amidst chaos. The Wala attack was relentless, giving no quarter. Zhu Mian and Song Ying died in battle, and with their commanders gone, the Ming army fell apart—tens of thousands scattered and were defeated piecemeal. In less than an hour, the Datong border troops were utterly destroyed; Lu Qing, stunned, witnessed near total annihilation.

Defeat tumbled like a landslide. Never had Lu Qing imagined Ming’s collapse would be so swift. In shock, he fled south with the rout. Wala cavalry chased them down; Ming soldiers, desperate for survival, could not mount any resistance and were slaughtered in their wake.

Now, whoever ran slow died fast—no one could look after anyone else. Lu Qing, thinking he was at the front, found he was not especially fast, but he was luckier than those lagging behind, who were cut down by the pursuing Wala horsemen.

Author’s note: Ming Chengzu Zhu Di was canonized as Taizong, and later as Chengzu during the Jiajing reign.

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