Tran Thu Do

The emperor's small boat moved quietly through the water, threading between the court's boats, which lay stopped along a riverbank. Behind him lay the abandoned capital, Thăng Long, the city now called Hanoi. Ahead lay a question that no one yet dared to answer. Emperor Trần Thái Tông sat in that boat, carrying the whole country on his shoulders, looking for advice.

The story begins far to the north. Late in the lunar year Đinh Tỵ, a Mongol army that had earlier conquered the kingdom of Đại Lý, in the region of Yunnan, was on the move. Then it turned toward Đại Việt, an old name for Vietnam. Its commander was the general Ngột Lương Hợp Thai, with about 30,000 troops under him. They were horsemen who lived in the saddle, and many lands had already submitted to them. From Yunnan they came down by two overland roads, following both banks of the Thao River.

On the other side, the man in charge of military affairs at court was the Grand Preceptor, Trần Thủ Độ. The Grand Preceptor stood first among all the officials, in charge of the country's greatest affairs, above all the defense of its borders. He was born in 1194, so when the Mongols arrived he was already past sixty. In the reign of Emperor Trần Thái Tông, he was the court's firmest support, the man the emperor and the officials alike trusted.

The Đại Việt army planned to block the Mongols and fight a great battle at Bình Lệ Nguyên. But the Mongol force was very strong. Its cavalry was numerous and fierce, and the Đại Việt troops were driven back. At that moment a general named Lê Tần advised the emperor not to risk fighting on, but to pull back and preserve his strength. The emperor agreed. The troops boarded boats and went down the Cà Lồ River. Then they followed the Red River and made camp on the riverbank at Thiên Mạc.

The capital was left behind, but not in panic. When the Mongols marched in, the Đại Việt forces had all withdrawn. Along the roads the Mongols took, people left their gardens bare and their houses empty. There was no one to seize and nothing to plunder. The Mongols had taken a capital, yet what they held was only a silent, empty city.

Still, on the boats at Thiên Mạc, hearts were unsteady. They had lost a battle and lost the capital, and anyone would have been worried. Emperor Trần Thái Tông was worried too. In a small boat, he went first to the boat of his younger brother, the Grand Commandant, to ask for a plan.

The emperor's brother did not answer aloud. He dipped a finger in the water and wrote two words on the side of the boat: Nhập Tống. They meant: flee north and seek shelter with the Song, the dynasty then ruling China. Two words written in water, as thin as the fear of that moment.

The small boat moved on through the water. This time the emperor went to the Grand Preceptor, Trần Thủ Độ. He asked a very honest question. Should they keep fighting, or should they surrender?

An old man past sixty sat before an emperor torn with doubt, with water all around and a whole country holding its breath. He might have been tired. He might have been afraid, and he might have chosen the easier road. But he looked straight at the emperor and spoke slowly and firmly:

"My head has not yet fallen to the ground. Your Majesty, please do not worry."

He promised nothing grand. He did not count his own troops or point out the Mongols' weak spots. He only said that as long as he was alive and standing there, the emperor could rest easy. It was a single sentence, yet it was like a warm hand laid on the shoulder of someone trembling. He spoke as a man who had resolved to live or die with his country, one who placed the peace of all the people above his own life. When the most trusted man at court stayed that calm, those around him found their courage again.

Two answers, given beside two boats, on the same river. One was two words of flight, written in water. The other was a promise to stay, spoken with the whole heart. Emperor Trần Thái Tông chose to stay and fight on.

Then the moment came, in 1258. Through the night of January 28 and into the dawn of January 29, Emperor Trần Thái Tông advanced, turning back toward the capital. Nearly 40,000 Đại Việt troops closed in quietly. By midnight, their columns had reached the very edge of the Mongol sentry lines. The target was Đông Bộ Đầu, a landing on the Red River right beside the capital. It lay near the spot where Long Biên Bridge crosses the river today.

The counterattack came so suddenly that in the Mongol camp, the men had no time to put on armor and the horses had no time to be saddled. The foot soldiers and horsemen of the Trần army poured into the camps. The Mongol army, so used to winning, fell into disorder, then broke and fled north.

They fled upstream to the Bạch Hạc confluence and followed the Thao River. They were looking for the road home to Đại Lý. But the way home was not quiet either. In the area of Quy Hóa, the local chief was Hà Bổng. He was a Mường man. The Mường are an ethnic group of northern Vietnam whose language is closely related to Vietnamese. Hà Bổng and the soldiers and villagers of the area were waiting, and they struck from an ambush. The Mongols were badly beaten once more.

In 1258, the first war of resistance against the Mongols ended in victory. The small country had held firm against an army that had forced many lands to submit. The credit belonged to the emperor who led the counterattack, and to the general who knew when to advise retreat. It belonged to the people who left their gardens bare and their houses empty, and to the soldiers and villagers of Quy Hóa who blocked the road home. And part of it belonged to one sentence, spoken when everyone was shaken, by an old man who would not bow his head.

The two words, Nhập Tống, written in water on the side of that boat, must have dried very quickly, gone with the first breath of river wind. But the words of the Grand Preceptor, Trần Thủ Độ, have come down through several hundred years without fading. Today, Long Biên Bridge spans the flowing Red River. Somewhere near the foot of the bridge was the old landing of Đông Bộ Đầu, where the sound of Mongol hooves once faded away to the north. And the water there still glitters, as if it had never known fear.