San Kuo/Volume 1/Chapter 36
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Capture of Fanch‘eng: Chuko Liang Recommended.
In hot anger, Ts‘ao Jên lost no time in marching out to avenge the loss of so many of his army. He hastily crossed the river to attack Hsingyeh and trample it in the dust.
When Tan Fu got back into the city he said to his master, “When Ts‘ao Jên, now at Fanch'êng, hears of his losses, he will try to retrieve them and will come to attack us.
“What is the counter move?” asked Yüan-tê.
“As he will come with all his force his own city will be left undefended; we will surprise it.”
“By what ruse?”
The adviser leaned over and whispered to his chief. Whatever the plan was it pleased Yüan-tê, who made arrangements. Soon the scouts reported Ts‘ao Jên crossing the river with a mighty host.
“Just as I guessed,” said Tan Fu, hearing of it.
Then he suggested that Yüan-tê should lead out one army against the invaders. He did so, and, when the formation was complete, Chao Yün rode to the front as champion and challenged the other side.
Li Tien rode out and engaged. At about the tenth bout Li Tien found he was losing and retired toward his own side. Chao Yün pressed after him, but was checked by a heavy discharge of arrows from the wings. Then both sides stopped the battle and retired to their camps.
Li Tien reported to his chief that their opponents were brave, very full of spirit, and that they would be hard to overcome and advised a retreat on Fanchêng.
Ts‘ao Jên angrily replied, “You damped the men’s spirits before we started, and now you betray us. You have been bought and you deserve death.”
He called in the executioners and they led away their victim. But the other officers came to intercede and Tien was spared. However, he was transferred to the command of the rear, while Ts‘ao Jên himself led the attack.
Next day the drums beat an advance and Ts‘ao Jên, having drawn up his men, sent a messenger over to ask if his opponent recognised his plan of array. So Tan Fu went on a hill and looked over it. Then he said to Liu Pei “The arrangement is called 'The Eight Docked Gates,' and each 'gate' has a name. If you enter by one of the three named 'Birth,' 'Bellevue' and 'Expanse' you succeed; if by one of the 'gates' 'Wounds,' 'Fear,' or Annihilation,' you sustain injuries. The other two 'gates' are named 'Obstacles' and 'Death,' and to enter them means the end. Now, though the eight ‘gates' are all there quite correct, the central 'key-post' is lacking and the formation can be thrown into confusion by entry from the south-east and exit due west.”
Wherefore certain orders were issued and Chao Yün, leading half a company, rode out on his prancing steed to break the array. He burst in, as directed, at the south-east and, with great clamour and fighting, reached the centre. Tsao Jên made for the north, but Chao Yün, instead of following him, made a dash westward and got through. Thence he turned round to the south-east again and smote till Ts‘ao Jên’s army was in disarray. A general advance was signalled and the defeat was severe. The beaten enemy retired.
Tan Fu forbade pursuit and they returned.
The loss of the battle convinced Ts‘ao Jên of the wisdom of his colleague and he sent for him to consult.
“They certainly have some very able person in Liu Pei’s army since my formation was so quickly broken,” said Ts‘ao Jên.
“My chief anxiety is about Fanch'êng,” said Li Tien.
“I will raid their camp this night,” said Jên. “If I succeed we will decide upon what should be done next. If I fail, we will return to Fanch'êng.”
“The camp will be well prepared against such a thing and you will fail,” said Li.
“How can you expect to fight successfully when you are so full of doubts?” said Jên, angrily.
He held no more converse with his cautious colleague, but himself took command of the van and set out. Tien was relegated to the rear. The attack on the enemy’s camp was fixed for the second watch.
Now as Tan Fu was discussing plans with his chief a whirlwind went by, which Fu said foretold a raid on the camp.
“How shall we meet it?” said Yüan-tê.
“The plans are quite ready,” was the reply.
He whispered them to the chief. So at the second watch, when the enemy arrived, they saw fires on all sides; the stockades and huts burning. Ts‘ao Jên understood at once that all hope of a surprise was vain and he turned to get away as quickly as possible. This was the signal for Chao Yün to fall on and that cut his return road. He hastened north toward the river, and reached the bank, but, while waiting for boats to cross the stream, up came Chang Fei and attacked.
By dint of great efforts and with the support of his colleague he got into a boat, but most of the men were drowned in the stream. As soon as he got to the farther shore he bolted for Fanch'êng. He reached the wall and hailed the gate, but, instead of a friendly welcome, he heard the rolling of drums, which was soon followed by the appearance of a body of men. Kuan Yü led them.
“I took the city a long time ago,” shouted Kuan Yü.
This was a severe shock to Jên, who turned to flee. As soon as he faced about Kuan Yü attacked and killed many of his men. The remnant hastened to Hsüch‘ang. On the road the beaten general wondered who had advised his opponents with such success.
While the defeated general had to find his way back to the capital, Yüan-tê had scored a great success. Afterwards he marched to Fanch'êng, where he was welcomed by the magistrate Liu Pi, himself a scion of the ruling family, who had been born in Changsha. He received Yüan-tê as a guest in his own house and gave banquets and treated him exceedingly well.
In the train of the magistrate, Yüan-tê saw a very handsome and distinguished-looking young man, and asked who he was.
Liu Pi replied, “He is my nephew, K'ôu Fêng, an orphan, whom I am taking care of.”
Yüan-tê had taken a great liking for the lad and proposed to adopt him. His guardian was willing, and so the adoption was arranged. The young man’s name was changed to Liu Fêng. When Yüan-tê left, he took his adopted son with him. He was then made to bow before Kuan Yü and Chang Fei as uncles.
Kuan Yü was doubtful of the wisdom of adopting another son, saying, “You have a son; why do you think it neccessary to adopt another? It may cause confusion.”
“How? I shall treat him as a father should and he will serve me as befits a son.”
Kuan Yü was displeased. Then Yüan-tê and Tan Fu began further discussions of strategy and they decided to leave a guard in Fanch'êng and to return to Hsinyeh.
In the meantime Ts‘ao Ts‘ao’s defeated generals had gone back. When they saw the Minister, Ts‘ao Jên threw himself on the ground weeping and acknowledging his faults. He told the tale of his losses.
“The fortune of war,” said Ts‘ao Ts‘ao. “But I should like to know who laid Liu Pei’s plans.”
“That was Tan Fu,” said Jên.
“Who is he?” asked Ts‘ao.
Ch'êng Yü said, “The man is not Tan Fu. When young this man was fond of fencing and used to take up the quarrels of other men and avenge their wrongs. Once, after killing his man, he let down his hair, muddied his face and was trying to escape when a lictor caught him and questioned him. He would not reply. So they carted him through the streets beating a drum and asking if any one recognised him. Nobody dared own to knowing him, if they did so. However, his companions managed to release him secretly and he ran away under some other name. Then he turned to study and wandered hither and thither wherever scholars were to be found. He was a regular disputant with Ssŭma Hui. His real name is Hsü Shu (Yüan-chih) and he comes from Yingchou. Tan Fu is merely an assumed name.”
“How does he compare with yourself?” asked Ts‘ao.
“Ten times cleverer.”
“It is a pity. If able men gather to Liu Pei his wings will soon grow: What is to be done?”
“Hsü Shu is there now; but if you wanted him it would not be difficult to call him,” replied Hsün Yu.
“How could I make him come?” said Ts‘ao.
“He is noted for his affection for his mother. His father died young, leaving his mother a widow with one other son. Now that son is dead and his mother has no one to care for her. If you sent and got his mother here and told her to write and summon her son he would surely come.”
Ts‘ao sent without loss of time and had the old lady brought to the capital, where he treated her exceedingly well. Presently he said, “I hear you have a very talented son, who is now at Hsinyeh helping on that rebel Liu Pei against the government. There he is like a jewel in a muck-heap; it is a pity. Supposing you were to call him, I could speak of him before the Emperor and he might get an important office.”
Ts‘ao bade his secretaries bring along the “four precious things of the study,” with which the dame could write to her son.
“What sort of a man is Liu Pei?” asked she.
Ts‘ao replied, “A common sort of person from P‘eichün, irresponsible enough to style himself Imperial Uncle, and so claiming some sort of connection with the Hans. He is neither trustworthy nor virtuous. People say he is a superior man as far as externals go, but a mean man by nature.”
The dame answered in a hard voice, “Why do you malign him so bitterly? Every one knows he is a descendant of one of the Han Princes and so related to the House. He has condescended to take a lowly office and is respectful to all men. He has a reputation for benevolence. Every one, young and old, cowherds and firewood cutters, all know him by name and know that he is the finest and noblest man in the world. If my son is in his service, then has he found a fitting master. You, under the name of a Han minister, are really nothing but a Han rebel. Contrary to all truth you tell me Yüan-tê is a rebel, whereby you try to induce me to make my son leave the light for darkness. Are you devoid of all sense of shame?”
As she finished speaking she picked up the inkstone to strike Ts‘ao Ts‘ao. This so enraged him that he forgot himself and the need for caution and bade the executioners lead off the old woman and put her to death. The adviser Ch'êng Yü, however, stopped this act of folly by pointing out the effect it would have on his reputation and how it would enhance hers, beside adding a keen desire for revenge to the motives which led Hsü Shu to labour in the interest of Liu Pei. He closed his remarks saying, “You had better keep her here so that Hsü Shu’s body and his thoughts may be in different places. He can not devote all his energies to helping our enemy while his mother is here. If you keep her I think I can persuade the son to come and help you.”
So the outspoken old lady was saved. She was given quarters and cared for. Daily Ch'êng Yü went to ask after her health, falsely claiming to being a sworn brother of her son’s, and so entitled to serve her and treat her as a filial son would have done. He often sent her gifts and wrote letters to her so that she had to write in reply. And thereby he learned her handwriting so that he could forge a “home” letter. When he could do this without fear of detection he wrote one and sent it by the hand of a trusty person to Hsinyeh.
One day a man arrived enquiring for one Tan Fu, a secretary; he had a letter from home for him. The soldiers led him to Tan Fu. The man said he was an official carrier of letters and had been told to bring this one. Tan Fu quickly tore it open and read:—
“On your brother’s death recently I was left alone; no relative was near and I was lonely and sad. To my regret, the Minister Ts‘ao Ts‘ao inveigled me into coming to the capital, and now he says you are a rebel and he has thrown me into bonds. However, thanks to Ch'êng Yü, my life has been spared so far, and, if you would only come and submit too, I should be quite safe. When this reaches you, remember how I have toiled for you and come at once, that you may prove ourself a filial son. We may together find some way of escaping your own place and avoid the dangers that threaten me. My life hangs by a thread and I look to you to save me. You will not require a second summons.”
Tears gushed from Hsü Shu’s eyes as he read, and with the letter in his hand he went to seek his chief, to whom he told the true story of his life and how he had joined Yüan-tê. “I heard that Liu Piao treated men well and went to him. I happened to arrive at a time of confusion. I saw he was of no use, so I left him very soon. I arrived at the retreat of Ssuma Shui-ching ('Water-mirror') late one night and told him, and he blamed me for not knowing a master when I saw one. Then he told me of you and I sang that wild song in the streets to attract your attention. You took me: you used me. But now my aged mother is the victim of Ts‘ao Ts‘ao’s wiles. She is in prison and he threatens to do worse. She has written to call me and I must go. I hoped to be able to render you faithful service, but, with my dear mother a captive, I should be useless. Therefore I must leave you and hope in the future to meet you again.”
Yüan-tê broke into loud moans when he heard that his adviser was to leave.
“The bond between mother and son is divine,” said he, “and I do not need to be reminded where your duty lies. When you have seen your venerable mother perhaps I may have again the happiness of receiving your instruction.”
Having said farewell, Hsü Shu prepared to leave at once. However, at Yüan-tê's wish he consented to stay over the night. Then Sun Ch‘ien said privately to his master, “Hsü Shu is indeed a genius, but he has been here long enough to know all our secrets. If you let him go over to Ts‘ao, he will be in his confidence and that will be to our detriment. You ought to keep him at all costs and not let him go. When Ts‘ao sees he does not come he will put the mother to death, and that will make Hsü Shu the more zealous in your service, for he will burn to avenge his mother’s death.”
“I cannot do that. It would be very cruel and vile to procure the death of his mother that I might retain the son’s services. If I kept him it would lead to a rupture of the parental lien, and that would be a sin I would rather die than commit.”
Both were grieved and sighed. Yüan-tê asked the parting guest to a banquet, but he declined saying, “With my mother a prisoner I can swallow nothing, nay, though it were brewed from gold or distilled from jewels.”
“Alas! your departure is as if I lost both my hands,” said Yüan-tê. “Even the liver of a dragon or the marrow of a phoenix would be bitter in my mouth.”
They looked into each other’s eyes and wept. They sat silent till dawn. When all was ready for the journey the two rode out of the city side by side. At Long Pavilion they dismounted to drink the stirrup cup. Yüan-tê lifted the goblet and said, “It is my mean fortune that separates me from you, but I hope that you may serve well your new lord and become famous.”
Hsü Shu wept as he replied, “I am but a poor ignorant person whom you have kindly employed. Unhappily I have to break our intercourse in the middle, but my venerable mother is the real cause. Though Ts‘ao Ts‘ao use all manner of means to coerce me, yet will I never plan for him.”
“After you are gone I shall only bury myself in the hills and hide in the forests,” said Yüan-tê.
Tan Fu said, “I had in my heart for you the position of leader of the chieftains, but my plans have been altogether upset by my mother. I have been of no advantage to you nor should I do any good by remaining. But you ought to seek some man of lofty wisdom to help you in your great emprise. It is unseemly to be downcast.”
“I shall find none to help better than you, my master.”
“How can I permit such extravagant praise?” said Tan Fu. “I am only a useless blockhead.”
As he moved off he said to the followers, “Officers, I hope you will render the Princely One good service, whereby to write his name large in the country’s annals and cause his fame to glow in the pages of history. Do not be like me, a man who has left his work half done.”
They were all deeply affected. Yüan-tê could not bring himself to part from his friend. He escorted him a little further, and yet a little further, till Shu said, “I will not trouble you, O Princely One, to come further. Let us say our farewell here.”
Yüan-tê dismounted, took Hsü Shu by the hands and said, “Alas! we part. Each goes his way and who knows if we shall meet again?”
His tears fell like rain and Shu wept also. But the last goodbyes were said and when the traveller had gone Yüan-tê stood gazing after the little party and watched it slowly disappear. At the last glimpse he broke into lamentation.
“He is gone! What shall I do?”
One of the trees shut out the travellers from his sight and he testily pointed at it, saying, “Would that I could cut down every tree in the countryside!”
“Why?” said his men.
“Because they hinder my sight of Hsü Yüan-chih.”
Suddenly they saw Hsü Shu galloping back.
Said Yüan-tê, “He is returning; can it be that he is going to stay?”
So he hastened forward to meet him and when they got near enough he cried, “This return is surely for no slight reason.”
Checking his horse, Hsü Shu said, “In the turmoil of my feelings I forgot to say one word. There is a man of wonderful skill living about twenty li from the city of Hsiangyang, why not seek him?”
“Can I trouble you to ask him to visit me?”
“He will not condescend to visit you; you must go to him. But if he consent you will be as fortunate as the Chous when they got the aid of Lü Wang, or Han when Chang Liang came to help.”
“How does the unknown compare with yourself?”
“With me? Compared with him I am as a worn-out cart-horse to a kilin, an old crow to a phoenix. This man is of the same kidney as Kuan Chung and Yo I but, in my opinion, he is far their superior. He has the talent to measure the heavens and mete the earth; he is a man who overshadows every other in the world.”
“I would know his name.”
“He belongs to Yangtu of Langya; and his name, a double name, is Chuko Liang. His minor name is K‘ung-ming. He is of good family. His father was an official but died young and the young fellow went with his uncle to Chingchou, the Prefect of which was an old friend of his uncle’s, and he became settled there. Then his uncle died and he, with a younger brother, Chün, were farmers. They used to amuse themselves with the composition of songs in the 'Old Father Liang' style.
“On their land was a ridge of hills called the Sleeping Dragon and the elder of the two took it as a name and called himself 'Master Sleeping Dragon.' This is your man; he is a veritable genius. You ought really to visit him and if he will help you, you need feel no more anxiety about peace in the Empire.”
“'Water-mirror' spoke that time of two men, Fu-lung and Feng-ch‘u, and said if only one of them could be got to help me all would be well. Surely he, whom you speak of, is one of them.”
“Feng-ch‘u, or 'Phoenix Fledging,' is 'P‘ang Tʻung': and Fu-lung, or 'Hidden Dragon,' is ‘Chuko K‘ung-ming.'”
Yüan-tê jumped with delight, “Now at last I know who the mysterious ones are. How I wish they were here! But for you I should have still been like a blind man,” said he.
Some one has celebrated in verse this interview where Hsü Shu from horseback recommended K‘ung-ming:—
Yüan-tê heard that his able friend
Must leave him, with saddened heart,
For each to the other had grown very dear,
Both wept when it came to part.
But the parting guest then mentioned a name
That echoed both loud and deep,
Like a thunder clap in a spring-time sky,
And there wakened a dragon from sleep.
Thus was the famous K‘ung-ming recommended to the lord he was to serve, and Hsü Shu rode away.
Now Yüan-tê understood the speech of the hermit Ssŭma Hui, and he woke as one from a drunken sleep. At the head of his officers, he retook the road to the city and having prepared rich gifts set out, with his brothers, for Nanyang.
Under the influence of his emotions at parting Hsü Shu had mentioned the name and betrayed the retreat of his friend. Now he thought of the possibility that K‘ung-ming would be unwilling to play the part of helper in Yüan-tê's scheme, so he determined to go to visit him. He therefore took his way to Reposing Dragon Ridge and dismounted at the cottage. Asked why he had come, he replied, “I wished to serve Liu Pei of Hsiangchou but my mother has been imprisoned by Ts‘ao Ts‘ao, and has sent to call me. Therefore I have had to leave him. At the moment of parting I commended you to him. You may expect him speedily and I hope, Sir, you will not refuse your aid but will consent to use your great talents to help him.”
K‘ung-ming showed annoyance and said, “And so you have made me the victim of your sacrifice.”
So saying he shook out his sleeves and left the room. The guest shamefacedly retired, mounted his horse and hastened on his way to the capital to see his mother.
To help the lord he loved right well,
He summoned the aid of another,
When he took the distant homeward way,
At the call of a loving mother.
What was the sequel will appear in the following chapters.