Chapter Seventy-Nine: The Red Turbans Do Not Fight Their Own

Although he only spoke of “withdrawing for rest and replenishment,” anyone who heard these words would understand that Dashi Temur was preparing a second plan.

He had already committed all the mobile forces and resources that the Jiangzhe Province could muster to the Jiangdong battlefield. Yet, since Taiping City had not fallen after such prolonged fighting, Dashi Temur felt he needed an elite force under his direct command.

Back then, the reason Xiang Pulue had been able to sweep through Jiangzhe Province with impunity was that the entire provincial army had been sent to the Jiangxi front. When Xiang Pulue launched a surprise attack on Hangzhou Road, the province couldn’t even dispatch a complete unit of ten thousand. In the end, it was only with reinforcements from Dadu that Hangzhou Road was reclaimed.

Now, though the bandits of Jiangxi, Gaoyou, and Taizhou had been quiet, Dashi Temur believed he must prepare in advance. Yet Zuo Danashili gave an unexpected recommendation: “If a force must be withdrawn from Jiangdong for rest and replenishment, my first recommendation is Xie Guoxi’s Pike Army.”

Xie Guoxi’s Pike Army?

Dashi Temur could hardly believe his ears. “The Pike Army? Can they be trusted?”

Though Xie Guoxi’s Pike Army had risen from volunteer ranks, their discipline was poor and they had long wandered among several major factions. They had not only openly adopted the “Zhiping” era name of the Xu-Song regime and the “Longfeng” era name of the Han-Song regime but had also captured many cities under Yuan control.

Dashi Temur could have accepted any force Zuo Danashili named—except for Xie Guoxi’s Pike Army. However, Zuo Danashili explained, “Xie Guoxi may have a checkered past, but he and the Chuzhou rebels now have an irreconcilable enmity, and the Chuzhou rebels cannot offer him what he desires.”

By “Chuzhou rebels,” he meant Zhu Yuanzhang and the Left Camp. This time, Zhu Yuanzhang had suffered a heavy defeat at the hands of the Pike Army, losing over a thousand Left Camp officers and soldiers as prisoners. Zhu Yuanzhang, for all his grand ambitions, was known to be narrow-minded, holding grudges for a lifetime, let alone such a humiliating loss.

But what Dashi Temur cared about was what Xie Guoxi truly wanted. “What does the Pike Marshal want?”

“Provincial Chancellor of Jiangzhe, Associate Administrator of the Province, and the posts of Right and Left Assistant Ministers!”

“Absurd!” Dashi Temur burst out in fury. “Left Assistant Minister, you must understand the gravity of this. Chancellor, Associate Administrator, Right and Left Assistant Ministers—these are positions with real standing. No southerner has any right to touch them. Have him choose another condition!”

Zuo Danashili was about to argue when Dashi Temur suddenly changed his tone. “But Su Tianjue once served as Associate Administrator of Jiangzhe Province. As long as Xie Guoxi does not heed orders from illegitimate sources, I can agree to this. I will handle the court.”

Su Tianjue was a Han Chinese with roots, whereas Xie Guoxi, a disgraced southerner with no real backing, was not comparable. Under the Yuan system, Mongols, Semu, Han, and Southerners were divided, but the true distinction lay in “roots” rather than ethnicity. The Mongols had conquered the Southern Song last, so Southerners from the former Song territories had no real standing, and even if they passed the civil service exams, could only serve as minor local officials.

Yet, it was precisely Xie Guoxi, with only stains and no roots, who now had the chance to rise in a single leap. Dashi Temur’s only demand was that he “not heed illegitimate orders”—but everyone knew this actually meant “not heed the Provincial Secretariat’s illegitimate orders.” Zuo Danashili seized the moment: “On behalf of the Pike Marshal, I thank the Chancellor in advance. He has already promised me that no matter what happens, he will remain aligned with the Province.”

Being from the Secretariat himself, Zuo Danashili was very careful with his words, never saying “not heed the Secretariat’s illegitimate orders,” and he quickly changed the subject rather than delve deeper: “By the way, I hear the Chancellor is reinstating Liu Ji. What post will you give him?”

Back in the thirteenth year of Zhizheng, when Fang Guozhen was being pacified, Zuo Danashili was the chief envoy of pacification, Liu Ji the deputy. But Liu Ji, a pale-faced scholar, stubbornly opposed the pacification, and Zuo Danashili, relying on his position as Censor of the Southern Secretariat, gave Liu Ji a hard time. Ironically, the subsequent developments proved Liu Ji’s predictions nearly correct, which became a lingering regret for Zuo Danashili.

Dashi Temur’s expression grew stern. “He was originally a Provincial Affairs Officer, so he will be reinstated as such. For a southern scholar to attain this position is an immense imperial favor.”

Xie Guoxi had risen in one bound, but Liu Ji’s career path was that of a typical southern scholar-official: after twenty-two years of hardship, never once in charge, he had finally made it to the seventh-rank Provincial Affairs Officer.

Yet, both Dashi Temur and Zuo Danashili saw this as only natural. Liu Ji was just a pale scholar, with neither troops nor territory; a seventh-rank Provincial Affairs Officer was already a grand imperial favor. Zuo Danashili even smiled. “Truly a grand imperial favor! Liu Ji will surely be grateful to the court and the Chancellor for this chance to return.”

A mere seventh-rank officer could be dealt with however the Left Assistant Minister saw fit, but just as he was feeling pleased, an urgent report arrived from outside: “Chancellor! Chancellor! Urgent news from Huizhou—Poyang bandits are mustering in force and seem ready to cross Yuchui Pass to invade eastern Zhejiang!”

Dashi Temur was instantly alarmed. “Left Assistant Minister, hurry back to Jiangdong and ensure the Pike Marshal follows all court commands. And send Liu Ji, the Provincial Affairs Officer, to see me at once!”

He had hesitated about reinstating Liu Ji, but with the Poyang bandits threatening invasion, he had no choice but to rely on such a pale scholar to serve the court loyally.

Although the Jiangdong front seemed somewhat calm for now, the fighting never truly ceased. Even on the quietest days, casualties on both sides remained in the double digits.

Beneath the blazing sun, through storms, barricades, mud, and filth, the Chaohu Fleet had made a name for itself, earning respect with its prowess.

While many in the Left Camp seemed to believe the Navy’s motto of “seek no complete victory, only avoid defeat,” the truth was that the Navy’s steady and cautious strategy had proven sound—at worst, there had only been a few minor setbacks, and their performance was consistently stable.

The Left Camp was a different story, marked by both great victories and terrible defeats. Had it not been for the Navy’s steady hand holding the line, the situation might have become dire.

It was precisely because of the Navy’s remarkable consistency that the Chuzhou Red Turbans now proclaimed a bold new slogan: “Red Turbans do not fight Red Turbans!”