Poor King Ho Chu was hard put. Wind? Wind? . . . By the uprooted pine tree of Mount Tai, how was he to produce the wind. A good half hour—sixty minutes in that land—passed before he had an inspiration. Again he called for the royal tailor. “Procure,” he told the tailor, “many bales of the stoutest silk. Then place some of your brawniest men outside yonder lattice, and have them rip the silk, tear it into strips—with all the noise possible.” With which King Ho Chu entered the treasury to see how his gold was dwindling.
Huge-armed stalwarts stood outside Tiao Fu’s window. Their hands clutched the woven silk. A pull. “Sh-r-r-r-r-iek. Pull. Sh-r-r-r-iek.” For two days the brow of Tiao Fu was smooth and untroubled. She actually spoke kindly to the King. He, poor soul, didn’t hear it. He was too busy wondering what the next task would be, and how expensive.
Scarcely a hundred bales of silk had been torn when Tiao Fu hurled her crown across the room and began to weep. “My dear, what’s the trouble? What is the trouble?” questioned Ho Chu. “Is the wind too violent?” “Oh, no. The wind is natural enough, and it pleases me. I miss—oh, how I do miss the rumbling thunder of Kiang Sing, and the fall of lightning-shattered trees. I miss them and oh, I wish it would rain—real rain.” The tears fell faster with each word.
Now King Ho Chu had a tremendous army encamped on the palace grounds. He summoned General Chang and explained matters—with an order. No sooner ordered than accomplished. The soldiers in their heaviest shoes marched ponderously beneath the latticed window. “Boom. Boom. Bru-u-u-um. Bru-u-u-um. Bru-u-u-u-ump.” And how do you like our thunder? Little drums and great, they rattled and roared. “Rap-p-p. Boom. Boom. . . .” In endless line the soldiers marched. One day. Two days. Three days. Four. Some of them slept while the others marched. Boom. Boom. Boom. The sun on their spears blazed and flickered—the lightning. By night there were flashing fires.
It is gratifying to relate that Tiao Fu was moderately pleased. Her appetite returned and the tears were withheld. She spoke to the King with kindness—several times. All might have gone well had not some malcontents down Kan Su way started a rebellion. Off went the army—General Chang waving his sword, and the smallest drummer boy thumping with glee. That was at midnight.
The dawn was at its breaking when beacons along the line of march flared up. “Halt” was the signal. The army halted. Again the beacons flared. They spelled the word “Return.”
Tiao Fu was not so well. She longed for the roll of the drums to remind her of Kiang Sing’s thunder. What could the poor King do but recall his army? The rebellion in Kan Su continued merrily. And General Chang, who was an old-time soldier, expressed his opinion—rather explosively—to a sympathetic staff officer. But never mind that. Let the drums sound.
When the rebellion spread to Kan Si, the King felt that things had gone quite far enough. It was time to teach those rebels a lesson. Away went the army again.
A whole day passed and no return order was signaled. Night came and the army tramped onward. . . . A pillar of flame shot up from a hilltop. It was a beacon. “Return,” said the beacon. “Not I,” said General Chang; “I’ve had enough of the Queen’s whims. Besides, it’s raining right now. Forward. March.”
The army entered Kan Su and there encountered the rebels. It is better that the fight go undescribed. Here suffice it to say that if so much as one rebel escaped, he took pains to keep the fact secret. There is no mention of him in the books.