Chapter 167: Capturing Baitu Village

A scout came rushing back to where Xi Yazhou sat astride his horse—the only mounted officer in the entire column, riding Nick's prized "Alanche." The racehorse was truly magnificent, and every native they passed stared at the animal with undisguised admiration. Horses were rare enough on Hainan, let alone one so tall and beautiful.

Since entering the mountains, however, Xi Yazhou had spent more time on foot than in the saddle. The steep terrain and dense jungle canopy meant that any ambush would naturally target the only horseman first, and much as he disliked walking, self-preservation won out over comfort. After more than two hours of gasping his way uphill through the suffocating vegetation, he was already regretting the month of free labor he'd promised Wu Nanhai in exchange for borrowing the beast.

"Commander Xi—Baitu's checkpoint lies just ahead."

"Confirmed?" Xi Yazhou wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"Confirmed. We've already sent negotiators to demand they open up."

"Let them keep talking." Xi Yazhou waved his arm. "All platoons—rest in place! I need a break."

Xiong Buyu had been shouting through a megaphone for half an hour, but the wooden stockade blocking the road remained stubbornly silent. A thick log barricade sealed the gate, and no figures were visible on the palisade walls—though the glint of weapons in the sunlight betrayed their presence.

"Fire—let's give them something impressive." Xi Yazhou lowered his binoculars. The wooden stockade could be taken in ten minutes if he really wanted it.

"Commander Xi—Bei Wei radioed in. His men have infiltrated behind the stockade and are holding at Hill 41.3, one hundred meters out. Should they attack?"

"Just have them monitor. If we do all the fighting for the troops, these new recruits won't get any practice."

"Understood."

"All platoons—prepare for combat! Fix bayonets!"

At the officers' commands, the resting soldiers scrambled to their feet and formed up under the squad leaders' urgent direction. Orderlies helped the officers unpack stab-resistant vests from their backpacks—too hot for marching but essential for what was coming. Rattan helmets were swapped for steel.

"Fine—give them a taste of artillery," Ying Yu said with a resigned sigh.

The first shot blasted the wooden gate to splinters, sending shards flying in all directions. Two more rounds struck the stockade proper: one blew a wooden parapet clean off, the other punched straight through the wall. The 12-pounder iron balls traced smoking arcs through the air—a terrifying spectacle. The Training Battalion soldiers cheered at the display of their artillery's might.

Almost simultaneously, white smoke billowed from the stockade walls and a cannon report echoed across the hillside. The cheering soldiers ducked instinctively—some dove face-first into the dirt with their hands over their heads, while others looked ready to flee outright. The formation wavered dangerously.

"Good heavens!" Xiong Buyu—though technically a non-officer—had full equipment and carried his beloved flute, planning a heroic British Grenadiers-style column assault. He had not expected enemy cannon fire to throw a month's worth of training into such chaos.

"Stand fast! Stand fast! Don't panic!" Officers drew their swords to restore order.

Recruits fear cannons—the old saying held true. Xi Yazhou cursed under his breath as he watched his troops scramble. On returning, I must drill them endlessly under cannon fire, he resolved silently.

Old Tiger You thrust his sword skyward. "Any bastard who looks back—I'll chop him down! Everyone stand firm, you worthless lot!" The flat of his blade cracked against a soldier who was turning to run.

The stockade's cannonball fell less than a hundred meters away. Ying Yu recognized it immediately and felt no alarm. "They're using scrap iron and rocks as shot."

"Continue firing!"

Xi Yazhou did not order an immediate assault. Instead, solid iron rounds pounded the position relentlessly, and the logs collapsed like children's blocks. Within minutes, the entire stockade was reduced to a smoking, burning heap of rubble.

Soon figures came rushing out with weapons raised for close combat—but the stabilized infantry met them with volleys that cut them down where they stood. After the first fusillade, a dozen or more lay fallen. The survivors, spattered with blood and screaming in terror, fled back toward the wreckage.

Xi Yazhou ordered a bugle assault. This time there was no embarrassment. The platoons correctly alternated cover and advance, quickly entering the checkpoint. The ground was littered with bodies crushed by cannon fire and falling timber. Soldiers mercilessly bayoneted the dying and wounded, their screams echoing through the smoke. Xi Yazhou shook his head: these soldiers had weak fighting spirit but killed without hesitation. Whether that was good or bad, he couldn't say.

Prisoners were tied ten to a rope. Xiong Buyu hastily interrogated them—almost all were Fujianese refugees who had fled endless tax exactions to Hainan. Baitu had sheltered them in exchange for monthly rice and cash payments. They worked as laborers and militia.

The cannons and powder, they explained, had been bought from "red-hairs" who came seeking ship repairs. They had also purchased red-haired muskets—but poor handling had caused injuries, so the weapons were eventually abandoned.

"What damn times we live in," Xiong Buyu said after finishing his questioning, his voice thick with indignation. "The Ming is finished—even tiny villages are raising private armies."

"The Ming is finished—but the Jurchen aren't much better." Xi Yazhou sighed. Though dynastic cycles seemed inevitable, the Ming-Qing transition was a rare historical regression. Just as the world approached the threshold of modern civilization, China was about to become a brutal, backward slave state. Its people impoverished and ignorant. Its science destroyed. Its culture castrated. The only thing that would remain was Macartney's observation of a "barbarizing China" and its so-called "prosperous age."

Xi Yazhou was no "Ming enthusiast"—but even the rotten Ming lacked the ugliness of the queue hairstyle. That alone meant he could not allow history to repeat itself.

"Little Wei—take the 1st Company and double-time forward. Reach Baitu quickly, but don't enter yet." Xi Yazhou turned to brief Wei Aiwen. "Seal all land exits—don't let anyone escape!"

"Understood!"

"The naval blockade should be in place—the Fubo ought to have arrived by now. Once you're deployed, fire a red rocket to notify them."

The remaining soldiers cleared the battlefield. Bodies were tossed into the ravines, and logs were dragged from the road. Xi Yazhou noted the strategic terrain and ordered one platoon to guard the rear while the other units continued toward the village.

By three o'clock in the afternoon, Baitu surrendered. The village was well fortified: wooden palisades, rammed-earth walls, and log-built gun towers. Remarkably, the four corners featured bastions—it looked less like a Chinese village than a crude European fortress. Some villagers attempted to escape by sea, but the Fubo's broadsides drove them back. With no avenue of escape and a 12-pounder mountain howitzer smashing one of their gun towers, the village had no choice but to capitulate. Ying Yu breathed a sigh of relief—his ammunition was nearly exhausted.

After detaining the surrendering village elders, Xi Yazhou ordered his forces to occupy the village. Walking through its streets, he realized this was a small paradise. The houses were simple, but the villagers looked healthy and properly clothed. They showed normal fear—unlike the desperately poor villages he had seen, where peasants had dead, fish-like eyes.

The village warehouses and workshops were sealed. Xi Yazhou inspected them carefully—soldier discipline remained strict, thanks to the transmigrator officers supervising.

The Navy fleet entered the harbor and began offloading supplies and ammunition. Also arriving were the Planning Committee's inventory staff and Wen Desi himself—in his capacity as a shipbuilding expert. Baitu's greatest wealth was its shipyard, and they needed to evaluate whether the village was viable for continued use; relocating would mean abandoning the existing infrastructure.

The shipyard sat on the beachside near the bay. Ships rested on the slipways—some incomplete, others under repair.

After the inspection, it was clear that Baitu's facilities were comprehensive: ironworks, hemp works, tung oil works, paint works, and even a small lime kiln. But the harbor was too cramped. With mountains on three sides and a water depth of over ten meters, the entire harbor could still only accommodate eight to ten hundred-ton vessels. The village's shipbuilding capacity matched this limitation—only one 400-liao ship sat on the slipways; the rest were small fishing boats.

"Nice place." Wen Desi's eyes sparkled at the sight of such complete ancient shipbuilding facilities—momentarily forgetting his purpose.

"Too small. Fine as a storm harbor. But too small for a proper shipyard."

"It's a bit like 'chicken ribs'—scant meat, but a shame to throw away," Wen Desi agreed reluctantly. The harbor's water was limited, and the land space was equally constrained. The current scale was clearly the maximum.

After deliberation, the decision was made: relocate the entire village. Move the women, children, and elderly first. Leave some shipwrights to complete the vessels already on the slipways. Everything movable—especially the quality timber—would be transported. It was a scarce resource for transmigrator shipbuilding.

Xiong Buyu announced the decision to the elders: all villagers would be relocated to Bopu. There, the transmigrators would help rebuild the shipyard, provide housing, and allocate private plots.

Xi Yazhou did not give Xiong much time to advertise the advantages of the "New Village." He sat on a camp stool, brandishing a long saber and glaring menacingly.

"Enough talk. Return and tell the villagers: pack up, prepare for phased departure!" The bayonet-fixed soldiers behind him added considerable persuasiveness to the message.

No prolonged discussions and no political mobilization were needed. Bayonets and cannons were the hard truth. The villagers were ordered to pack and prepare for relocation. Anticipating an extended process, Li Jun and one platoon would garrison the village until the operation was complete.

(End of Chapter)