Wind Rises in North America 1625

Chapter 601 Annihilation (Part 1)

In spring, the Jingqili River finally broke free from its frozen state.

The turbid river water, carrying broken ice floes and last year's withered branches, rushed southward, gleaming with a grayish-yellow luster in the morning light.

The trees on both sides of the river have sprouted new green leaves, and the tender buds of birch and pine trees tremble slightly in the still chilly spring breeze.

However, beneath this seemingly reviving vitality lurks the bloodshed and murderous intent that the harsh winter could not quell.

The six remaining canoes of the Poyakov expedition are struggling downstream.

On the boat, more than eighty emaciated and ragged Cossacks, like a flock of frightened birds, nervously watched every swaying shadow on both banks with bloodshot eyes.

They had just been observing the residence of Baldachi, the leader of the Solon tribe who was said to have defected to the "new Chinese," from a distance near the mouth of the Tom River.

The stockade walls were high, and sentry posts were everywhere, with figures vaguely visible, indicating that the defenses were very tight.

"Sir, this village... is not a good place to attack." The clerk, Ivan Palkin, shook his head dejectedly and whispered to Poyakov, who was standing at the bow of the boat, with great reluctance.

His cheeks were sunken, and his eye sockets were bluish; the hunger and fear of a winter had left deep marks on him.

Poyakov, his face grim, made no response, his frostbitten hands gripping the gunwale tightly.

How could he not know?
His journey south had completely overturned his understanding of the world.

The Daur villages on both sides of the river were not only well-defended, with sturdy and neat walls combining rammed earth and wooden fences, but also presented a scene of prosperity that he had never seen in the "native" land.

The fields, now free of snow and ice, are neatly arranged with furrows, clearly the result of meticulous farming.

In the village, the faint sounds of cattle, horses, and sheep could be heard, and the air was filled with the distinctive pungent smell of livestock.

What surprised him even more was that large vegetable gardens had been set up on the edges of some villages, with many neat wooden frames, showing that the natives had mastered quite advanced horticultural techniques.

This is no wild and desolate land; it is a rich and idyllic countryside comparable to the heartland of Europe and Russia!
Most excitingly, the forest was teeming with shadowy figures—precious sables, glossy red foxes, black foxes, and fierce lynxes—constantly fueling the Cossacks' thirst for wealth.

"We'll avoid this place..." After a long silence, Poyakov finally gave the order, his voice hoarse and weary, "Our target is the Black Water (Heilongjiang River), that 'Yellow River Village.' Once we take it, all of this... will be our tribute to the Tsar, and each of us will gain an immeasurable fortune!"

He tried to boost morale with grand goals and abundant wealth, but he himself felt that his words lacked conviction.

The brutal depletion of a winter not only resulted in severe casualties, but more frighteningly, it eroded the team's morale and humanity.

They had eaten... that unspeakable "food," and deep in the eyes of each of them lay a trace of indelible madness and numbness.

Everyone glared hatefully at the indigenous village on the left bank. In the murky river, six dugout canoes struggled to adjust their course and continued southward with the current.

The river gradually widened, and the current seemed to slow down.

Just as everyone's tense nerves relaxed slightly, a dark mass of boats suddenly appeared in their field of vision at the bend in the river ahead!
“Holy Mother…” a sharp-eyed Cossack exclaimed in surprise.

Poyakov's heart clenched and nearly stopped beating.

Ahead, on the river, more than thirty narrow dugout canoes and slightly larger sampans were densely packed together, sailing upstream straight toward them.

The ship was packed with people; a rough estimate puts it at least three hundred.

Most of those people were dressed in animal skins or coarse cloth, carrying knives and spears, but among them were some soldiers wearing armor and iron helmets, and what they held in their hands were clearly firearms that gleamed with a cold metallic light!

“It’s the new Chinese! And those damned natives!” Parkin’s voice trembled with despair. “They…they’re coming for us!”

As if to confirm his judgment, a long and sharp horn sounded suddenly from the opposing fleet.

The sound pierced through the thin mist on the river, carrying a kind of ancient solemnity.

Immediately, the massive fleet, like a startled swarm of bees, suddenly accelerated, its oars flashing, cutting through the river water, and charged straight towards them with a chilling murderous aura.

"Turn around!...Turn around now!" Poyakov roared hoarsely, his face turning deathly pale.

All his wishful thinking was shattered at that moment.

The enemy was not only well-prepared, but their troop strength and equipment far exceeded his expectations.

This was by no means an encounter battle, but a military encirclement and suppression operation against them!

The expedition's six longboats were immediately thrown into chaos.

The Cossacks frantically tried to change the course of the boat in the current, the sounds of oars clashing, terrified shouts, and heavy breathing mingling together.

Driven by the instinct for survival, they paddled desperately, fleeing against the current back the way they came.

On the river, a life-or-death chase suddenly unfolded.

The six small boats in front fled like stray dogs, while the large fleet behind them pursued them relentlessly like hunting dogs that had caught the scent of blood.

The distance between the two sides is gradually closing.

Poyakov could even vaguely see the angry expressions on the faces of the native warriors on the pursuing ships, as well as the calm and sharp eyes of the soldiers in uniform.

"Faster! Faster!" Poyakov stood at the stern of the rocking ship, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails almost dug into his palms.

He kept looking back, his heart sinking to the bottom each time.

The other boats seemed better suited to the waters, and with more oarsmen, their pursuit was significantly faster.

"Sir, this won't do!... We'll be caught up soon!" Old Cossack Andrei Ivanov shouted as he rowed with all his might, his beard covered in splashed river water.

Poyakov's face was ashen, and tension and anxiety filled his heart.

On the open river, once they were entangled by the enemy, facing an enemy several times their size and the possibility of volleys of musket fire, these eighty-odd men would have no chance of survival.

"Look, there's a bend in the river!... Come ashore!" Scribe Parkin suddenly shouted, pointing to a sparsely wooded section of the riverbank to the right. The current was gentler there, forming a shallow shoal that seemed suitable for landing.

At this moment, the setting sun was slowly sinking in the west, and the last rays of its light dyed the river surface a desolate golden-red.

The shouts of the pursuers and the sound of their paddling seemed to be right behind me.

"Abandon ship!"

"Get ashore!" "Go into the woods!"

Without any hesitation, Poyakov gave the order decisively.

This is their only chance of survival—abandon their canoe, which they rely on for mobility and to carry their last bit of supplies, and escape into the dense, uncharted forest.

"Bang! Bang!"

Several crisp gunshots rang out from behind, bullets whizzing past the sails or hitting the gunwale, sending up splinters of wood.

The pursuers finally came within range of the muskets and began firing in a deterrent manner.

This further hastened the collapse of the expedition.

The boat crashed haphazardly onto the shore, and before it could even come to a complete stop, the Cossacks, like dumplings being dropped into a pot, jumped into the knee-deep, icy river water and stumbled towards the riverbank.

They discarded everything heavy that slowed their escape—including some of the furs they had painstakingly brought from the Ummlekan camp, some cumbersome tools, and some even left their muskets and powder flasks on the boat in the chaos.

At this moment, nothing is more important than saving one's life.

Surrounded by Palkin and several trusted Cossacks, Poyakov stumbled up the riverbank and plunged into the dense bushes without looking back.

Behind them came the commotion of pursuing ships docking, angry shouts, and sporadic gunfire.

The dense forest instantly swallowed up the more than eighty figures who were fleeing in panic.

The light under the trees suddenly dimmed.

The towering trees blocked out the sun, with only a few rays of the setting sun filtering through the layers of leaves, casting dappled patterns of light that added to the eeriness of the place.

Beneath your feet lies a thick layer of humus, accumulated over countless years, soft and slippery, making no sound when you step on it, yet seemingly concealing countless traps.

Dead trees lay sprawled haphazardly, entwined with dense vines, and the air was thick with the pungent smells of earth, fungi, and decaying plants.

They ran recklessly into the depths of the forest, thorns tearing their already tattered clothes and leaving bloody marks on their skin, but no one dared to stop.

The pursuers behind them seemed to have landed as well. Shouts and running sounds could be faintly heard, like the urgent beat of a drum, echoing in the silent forest, indistinguishable in distance.

They ran for an unknown amount of time until it was almost completely dark, and the sounds behind them seemed to fade into the distance. Everyone's physical strength was exhausted to the limit.

Poyakov finally couldn't hold on any longer and slid down to the ground against a huge cedar tree. His chest heaved violently like a bellows as he gasped for breath. The cold air he inhaled brought a sharp, cutting pain to his lungs.

Others also collapsed to the ground, some leaning against tree trunks, others lying directly on the ground, their faces filled with the fear of surviving a disaster and the exhaustion of being completely drained.

They lost their boat, most of their supplies, and even some of their weapons. In this completely unfamiliar and perilous primeval forest, they became true stray dogs.

"What...what do we do now?" Parkin's voice was choked with sobs as he slumped down next to Poyakov, his hands trembling uncontrollably from rowing and running.

Poyakov did not answer; he simply looked around warily.

Darkness seeped into every corner of the forest like thick ink, and the calls of various nocturnal animals and insects rose and fell. Further away, there seemed to be a few howls, whether from wolves or something else, which sent chills down one's spine.

The chill of early spring began to seep into their soaked bodies, and hunger struck again relentlessly.

“Shall we… build a fire?” a young Cossack suggested in a low voice, his teeth chattering, his eyes filled with a longing for light in the darkness.

“No!” Andrei Ivanov immediately whispered, his experience surpassing any other. “The firelight will reveal our location! Do you want to attract those new Chinese and natives again?”

The young Cossack immediately fell silent, shrinking back in fear.

In the darkness, only heavy, suppressed breathing could be heard.

A deeper sense of despair than when they were wintering at the mouth of the Umm Lekan River enveloped the surviving troops.

At that time, they at least had a makeshift camp and a clear objective.

Now, they have nothing left, lost in the boundless dark forest, with countless pursuers behind them.

Poyakov leaned against the rough bark and closed his eyes.

The expectant face of Governor Golovin flashed through his mind, as did the warm fireplace in Yakutsk, and the things they had eaten... No, he forcibly shut out the thought.

Merit?

wealth?

New land?
All of this now seems like a distant, chilling joke.

"Take a headcount... collect... how many weapons and food we have left." He finally gave the order weakly, his voice unusually faint in the silent forest.

Several squad leaders began calling out the names of their team members in low voices, and a rustling sound and suppressed responses echoed in the darkness.

The result was disheartening; more people were lost or died in the chaotic escape, and now only seventy-four people have been brought together.

There were fewer than forty matchlock guns left, most of the gunpowder was ruined by water, and food... was scarce, barely enough to last a day or two.

“My lord…” Andrei groped his way over, his voice low and stern, “We can’t stay here any longer. We must continue deeper into the river, the further away the better. And… we need to find a way to get some food.”

Before he finished speaking, a slight "crack" sound, like a dead branch being broken, suddenly came from nearby.

Everyone held their breath for a moment, looking in horror toward the source of the sound, their hands instinctively reaching for the weapons beside them.

In the darkness, it seemed that more than one pair of eyes were silently watching them, these uninvited guests.

Is it a wild animal?
Or... the enemy who has been tracking them all the way here?

Poyakov gripped his Cossack knife tightly, the cold hilt slightly calming his chaotic and desperate mind.

He stared intently into the deep darkness, as if he could see through it to the destiny hidden behind it.

The forest did not offer them shelter; instead, it opened its arms to an even more unknown and dangerous place.

Their nightmare is far from over; it may have only just begun.
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(End of this chapter)