Chapter 27: The Felt

For two days, heavy snow fell, and the Tang army remained in a standoff against the Nanzhao forces along the Baishu River. There was no combat between the two sides.

As the snow began to melt today, Zhao Huaian finally crawled out of the tent he had been hunkered down in for the past two days. Although the air outside was even colder, Zhao Huaian simply could not bear the living conditions any longer.

The tent they were currently occupying had been seized from the Tibetans at Tongshan Pass. While it was made of genuine wool felt and provided adequate warmth, the stench was enough to bring one to tears. Not to mention the lingering, rancid odor of sheep that had permeated it for years, the tent was also stained with the blood of the men who had fallen during the battle that night. Zhao Huaian had originally wanted to discard these things, but Old Liu, unwilling to part with them, insisted on dismantling the tents and carrying them along.

Old Liu had offered a reason Zhao could not refuse: "You idiot, it’s not like you’re the one carrying them, so why are you complaining?"

Fair enough. It was the mountain laborers who had to carry them, after all.

It must be said, however, that Old Liu’s decision was remarkably wise. Who could have foreseen this heavy snowfall? If not for these felt tents, people would have surely died.

Regardless, being crammed into a single tent with over a dozen men for two days, complete with a urine bucket kept inside, was something Zhao Huaian simply could not endure. He knew that conditions were harsh and incomparable to the modern era, but this was taking "staying grounded" a bit too far. Old Liu, Old Mo, and the others, however, were quite adaptable; they even felt a sense of bliss knowing they were warm inside the tent while the snow swirled outside. Such is the difference between people.

Zhao Huaian did not care whether Old Liu and the others felt blissful or not; since the snow had stopped today, he was determined to get out.

...

Wrapped in a sheepskin coat, Zhao Huaian exhaled a long breath, releasing the stuffiness of the past two days, then took a deep, refreshing gulp of air. Ah! This was the scent of freedom!

Only Zhao Huaian had emerged; the others remained curled up in their tents. It was not that they were lazy, but since none of them had winter clothing, coming outside meant freezing. This situation was not unique to Zhao Huaian’s group; looking across the camp, very few people had ventured out.

Zhao Huaian scanned the area, hoping to spot someone he knew, but alas, there was no one. Three days ago, after arriving at Qiongzhou with the main force, they had been assigned to this sector. The Baoyi and Muyi battalions, composed of the sons of local border families, had their own dedicated camp areas. As for the elite Tujiang and Zhongwu troops, after dropping them off, they had headed deeper into the camp to a wooden stockade reserved specifically for those elite units.

At that moment, Zhao Huaian once again clearly recognized the rigid hierarchy within the army. The men he led could not even enter the main camp; they were crowded together on this riverbank alongside other local militia groups from various districts, from where one could look directly across the river at the Nanzhao camp.

Damn it, if those Nanzhao soldiers were to suddenly cross the river to attack, wouldn't they be the first ones wiped out?

However, over the past two days, Zhao Huaian realized he had been overthinking. The Nanzhao soldiers were even more afraid of the cold than they were. For the past two days, let alone launching an attack, he hadn't even seen a single soul come down to fetch water. Still, this could not be a permanent solution. Zhao Huaian had been pondering this in his tent for two days, and he concluded that he had to pull some strings. Otherwise, once the fighting started, his men would inevitably be used as cannon fodder.

So, as soon as the snow stopped, Zhao Huaian came out, intending to head to the main camp to see if he could find Commissioner Song and ask for help in moving them elsewhere.

As Zhao Huaian stood there, he saw someone else emerge from a nearby tent. Like him, the man was wearing a sheepskin coat, though it looked particularly ill-fitting on his rotund frame. Zhao Huaian’s own coat had been sent by Xianyu Yue, who knew that despite having some furs, Zhao lacked proper winter gear, so he had delivered it personally the moment the snow began to fall. It had to be said, his "cheap" older brother was truly generous to him; he never fell short on his promises!

...

Just as Zhao Huaian was feeling a bit smug, the fat man waddled over with a beaming smile. He greeted Zhao Huaian enthusiastically: "Brother Zhao, how are you!"

Zhao Huaian knew this man, Doulu Feng. It was said his ancestors were Xianbei, but looking at his yellow skin and dark eyes, he was just a standard Han Chinese man. Three days ago, when Zhao first arrived, this fellow had come over to strike up a friendship. Zhao Huaian, being a man of a free and easy nature, had shared a drink with him and they had quickly become acquainted. The man was a minor local tycoon from Xinjin, Chengdu, and led a militia of about a hundred men stationed right next to his own.

Doulu Feng had a slight squint, and with his round, fat face and small eyes, his beaming expression looked particularly comical, prompting Zhao Huaian to tease him: "Brother Dou, what brings you to my side? I thought you were off to see your brother-in-law."

At this, the expression on Doulu Feng’s face turned awkward. His brother-in-law was a logistics officer in the main camp—not exactly a high-ranking official, but a man of some weight in the army—and Doulu had hoped to beg him for some winter clothing. But his brother-in-law had given him a sound scolding and chased him out of the camp. Naturally, he couldn't admit such a shameful thing in front of "Brother Zhao" and be looked down upon. He glanced at Zhao Huaian’s tents and said enviously: "Brother Zhao, your felt tents are truly excellent. Mine are drafty; you have no idea how I’ve spent these last two days."

Doulu Feng’s small eyes darted about, and he suddenly pointed at Zhao Huaian: "Brother Zhao, didn't I tell you? Our surname is Doulu, not Dou. You’re being disrespectful to our clan. The Doulu family is a distinguished house from Fanyang. Grant me a tent, and we'll call it even; otherwise, I’ll show you..."

Zhao Huaian gave the fat man a swift kick and scolded: "I’m the only one who gets to shake people down! You still haven't given me the three bamboo weavers you lost to me, and I haven't even started collecting on that debt!"

That day over drinks, Doulu Feng had seen Zhao Huaian’s seemingly naive manner and treated him like a fat sheep, insisting on gambling with dice. But in the end, he had lost three bamboo weavers to Zhao and suffered a heavy loss. As a small tycoon, he felt the sting of losing three skilled craftsmen, so he had pretended to be drunk to renege on the debt. Now that Zhao Huaian was demanding payment, he ignored the minor insult and began to play the fool.

Zhao Huaian ignored the fat man and said: "If you really are short on winter clothes, here’s the deal: I have plenty of sheepskins. You can trade your camp’s craftsmen for them. Five sheepskins for an armor smith; one sheepskin each for rope makers or bamboo weavers. What do you think?"

The fat man pondered, sensing it was a good deal, but his squinty eyes rolled, and he immediately started haggling: "No, no, everyone treasures their craftsmen. Rope makers and bamboo weavers should be at least two skins each, and armor smiths are even harder to come by—at least ten skins for them."

Zhao Huaian couldn't care less and turned to walk away. Every militia group in this sector had craftsmen. Armor and blade smiths were rare, but armor repairmen? And don't even get him started on rope and bamboo workers; anyone with hands could do that. Furthermore, if he were being blunt, after this heavy snow, the thaw would only bring more biting cold. Without winter clothing or warm tents, it wouldn't be surprising if people froze to death. So, he wasn't going to pamper the fat man; take it or leave it.

...

As Zhao Huaian walked away, the fat man scurried after him, grabbing his arm and fawning: "Good Brother Zhao, good Brother Zhao, we’re all brothers, we should help each other. I’ll take the deal, just as you said."

Zhao Huaian pulled his arm from the fat man’s greasy grip, held up his hand, and scoffed: "Too late. Before is before, now is now. Now it’s two craftsmen for one skin. Take it or leave it."

The fat man gasped, about to curse, when he heard Zhao Huaian hum: "One more word and it'll be three for one."

The fat man immediately fell silent, grabbed Zhao Huaian’s shoulder, and wailed: "Good Brother Zhao, good Brother Zhao, I surrender, brother. Two for one it is."

As he spoke, the fat man actually squeezed a tear from his squinty eyes—he felt truly wronged. Zhao Huaian had actual business to attend to; otherwise, he would have spent more time toying with this clown. He patted the fat man’s chest and laughed: "Go find Old Liu in my tent to make the trade. And remember, send over those two bamboo weavers you owe me, or I’ll give you a proper thrashing."

Seeing Zhao Huaian’s rough demeanor, the fat man shrank his head and scurried away. In truth, for the fat man, this was a good deal. Because of the sudden snow, no one had prepared enough winter clothing—mostly because they lacked the money to buy them—and they were all counting on the Qiongzhou camp to issue supplies. But the logistics officers in the camp didn't care if the militias lived or died; they barely had enough winter gear for themselves, so they told them to fend for themselves.

Thus, Zhao Huaian’s stash of furs was a rare and highly sought-after resource. He knew the fat man wasn't wealthy, so he wouldn't buy many; he’d buy just enough for a few of his own men, never minding the lives of the craftsmen. Zhao Huaian reckoned the situation in the other militia camps was much the same, and he planned to ask the others when he returned, hoping to sell off all the furs so he wouldn't have to worry once the fighting began.

...

After dismissing the fat man, a few more men crawled out of the other felt tents—Lu Zhongyuan and Zhou Dexing. They had already donned their armor and came running over. It turned out they had seen their commander leave the tent alone and immediately had their comrades help them armor up, then threw on the only winter robes available in the entire tent to follow him.

Zhao Huaian was very satisfied with their alertness. Thinking of the lazy Old Liu, he cursed under his breath: "Old Liu, oh Old Liu, if you hadn't met me, you’d never have managed to eat a decent meal in your life! Look at these men; that’s the spirit of progress."

Zhao Huaian greeted Lu Zhongyuan and Zhou Dexing, then prepared to head straight for the main camp. Just then, another person crawled out of a felt tent—it was Feyangu, one of the leaders of the recruited mountain laborers. He was also wrapped in a robe and wearing leather boots. He ran over and bowed to Zhao Huaian as soon as he arrived.

Zhao Huaian didn't think much of Feyangu. During the ambush on the Nanzhao troops, this fellow had been the first to think about running the moment he saw danger, yet was the first to rush forward when there was loot to be had. The very leather boots he was wearing now had been stripped from the feet of a Nanzhao warrior.

The bastard; he, Zhao, hadn't even managed to score a pair of leather boots!

With a sour tone, he said to Feyangu: "Old Fei, what are you doing? I’m in a rush to get to the main camp. If you have something to say, we can talk on the way."

With that, he grabbed Feyangu and began to walk slowly toward the main camp ahead.