Bai Yuan had only now realized—cannons and firearms might share the same firing principle, but handling them was another matter entirely.
A firearm, one man could manage alone.
A cannon? Even a crowd could fumble it.
He was already calculating in silence. A proper cannon crew needed roles—someone to load the gunpowder, someone to aim and ignite, someone to clean and reset the barrel. Without coordination, the whole squad just spun in circles like headless chickens.
So, at least five trained hands for one cannon.
Good. That would be the standard from now on—five to a gun.
It took the men about a hundred and thirty-two blinks of frantic confusion before the cannon was reloaded and pointed again toward the river.
In that blink-counted chaos, the bandit flotilla had closed in fast. The Yellow River's current was fierce, and downstream speed meant the ships rushed forward like a tide. After two cannon blasts, the outlaws rowed even harder, reckless and wild—flashing toward shore like thunderbolts.
Bai Yuan knew.
Two cannons, one last volley. After this—only hand-to-hand.
"Fire!" he shouted. "Everyone else—ready to fight! Archers, crossbows—"
Boom. Boom!
The cannons thundered again.
This time, fortune struck: one ball slammed straight into a mid-sized merchant vessel. Wood splinters flew like rain; a dozen bandits screamed and leapt into the river.
The second cannon went wide—chaos but no kill.
And by then, the rest of the fleet had already rammed ashore.
The beach landing had begun.
The fastest ship hit the sandbar at Qiachuan Pier with a cracking thud.
A wave of hardened bandits poured up the slope.
"Loose!"
Feng Jun roared the order. The effort split his nose open—blood ran down his face, and with a swipe of his palm he smeared it into an arrow shape across his cheek.
"Loose! Loose!"
The Gaojia Militia pulled their bows.
A storm of arrows whistled out—large war bows, small hunting bows, anything that could throw a shaft. It was a chaotic, desperate volley.
The bandits didn't flinch.
They crouched behind shields; arrows thunked into planks and iron plates with dull, useless rhythm. Only a handful went down.
Bai Yuan saw it instantly. "Frontline regulars. Border troops—they've defected."
Wang Jiayin's men.
He himself had once served the border. Now, with his hardened veterans, he had risen to command every outlaw legion from north to south—the most dangerous man of the early Chongzhen years—a title earned, not bragged.
If these ex-soldiers secured that beach, reinforcements would keep pouring in.
Feng Jun's voice cracked. "Arrows won't stop them!"
"Border troops? So what?" Bai Yuan snorted, lifted his rifled firearm, and sighted the lead man—a grizzled hundred-man captain, by the look of him, standing proud as a banner.
Bang!
The captain's face blossomed open.
He dropped where he stood.
The bandits froze.
"Cannon fire and firearms?!"
"How the hell did he hit that clean?!"
"Damn luck, maybe!"
"Hold the line! Don't panic!"
Bai Yuan ignored the chatter. He was reloading as he barked,
"Flat Rabbit! Zheng Gouzi! You two carrying grenades?"
Flat Rabbit shook his head. "No, sir. We were ordered to guard the Saintess—no explosives this time."
"Damn. Then we wait for Instructor He and the main force."
He rammed gunpowder and lead down the barrel, eyes tracking the sandbar.
The bandits were regrouping—their leader dead, morale dented but not broken. Shield line holding, returning the occasional arrow, shafts thunking into the wooden palisade.
Three more boats grounded in quick succession.
Three more waves of outlaws charging up the beach.
Flat Rabbit and his men raised their hand crossbows and fired in ragged rhythm. A few outlaws fell, others tumbled off their boats into the muddy current, splashing chaos across the yellow waves.
But more ships kept coming.
Feng Jun peeked over the palisade—and immediately ducked.
An arrow thudded into his hat.
He froze.
Then, realizing he wasn't bleeding, he touched the rim of his headgear—a woven rattan cap, hard as a drum. His laugh cracked with relief.
"Keep firing! Don't waste arrows on those shield bastards—hit the ones still rowing!"
Arrows rained down on the boats.
Outlaws raised whatever they could—shields, boards, pot lids, even thick padded coats—to cover themselves as they rowed faster. The arrows did little more than puncture their courage, not their hides.
Bai Yuan couldn't help recalling a farcical skirmish two years ago, when Liang Shixian borrowed a few hundred colored bows from Gao Village—bows so crooked they could barely throw straight—and yet managed to scare the Bu-Zhan-Ni gang into retreat.
But that was then.
These were no longer the same outlaws. They'd evolved.
Arrows alone wouldn't stop them now.
A sigh slipped through his teeth.
We have no real edge here. The Gaojia Militia alone can't hold this pier.
He was still calculating when—
Flat Rabbit came sprinting over, an arrow sticking out of his helmet like a flag.
"Sir Bai! The enemy's at the gate! We can't use the cannons anymore, can we?"
Bai Yuan exhaled. "No. They're too close."
"Then I'll borrow a gunpowder charge, if you please."
Flat Rabbit grabbed a cannon's gunpowder charge, jammed a slowmatch fuse into it, and lit it with practiced flair. He swung his arm and hurled it down the beach.
The fuse hissed as the bag tumbled—rolling straight to a cluster of shield-bearing soldiers.
The border troops stared.
"...Oh, hell."
Bai Yuan blinked. "Wait—you can do that?"
The fuse burned down.
Boom!
A column of smoke and dust swallowed the front line.
The gunpowder charge wasn't a fragmentation bomb—no shrapnel, no iron casing—but the shockwave was enough to scatter the shield wall and blow the formation apart.
The Gaojia Militia didn't waste the chance.
They loosed a fresh volley into the smoke. Screams rose; men stumbled out bleeding, some collapsed back into the river with heavy splashes.
Flat Rabbit threw back his head and laughed wildly.
"Ha ha ha! See? Leave it to Lord Rabbit to break the deadlock!"
[Historical Note: Ming Cannon Drill]
Late-Ming cannon teams typically consisted of five to seven men: a powder loader, a rammer, a gunner, a fuse lighter, and one or two porters. Firing speed depended entirely on teamwork—one sloppy reload could turn "artillery" into "ornamentation."