Chapter 227: Its Darkness Is the Night; Its Gaze Is the Light

Northeast of San Salvador, a dozen or so Fujian junks lay anchored along the shore.

These were the troop transports that had come with the Candle Dragon fleet.

Carinio thought these ships had been scattered by the warships, but in truth they had looped around in a wide arc and made a landing close to shore.

Under cover of night, Chen Jiao led a small squad of Red Charcoal soldiers rowing ashore onto the island where San Salvador stood.

Then they frantically hurled thermite charges into the town.

San Salvador was built entirely of timber; the moment it met molten lead at over a thousand degrees, it caught fire on all sides within moments.

Because the three galleons had sailed out to engage, only two or three hundred sailors and craftsmen remained in the town, and with no one in command, chaos erupted at once.

A Spanish captain shouted: "Put out the fire! You men, up on the palisade wall! Damn it, forget the church — secure the warehouse first!" "Woo—"

A low, short flute note sounded from the shore to the south, and everyone in the town wore looks of terror.

They had never heard such a strange flute sound, but its timbre was clearly of native origin.

The Spanish had burned six witches to death along the Formosa River on charges of heresy.

Everyone in town knew of this.

Now, hearing the flute so abruptly, all believed the ghosts of the witches had returned for revenge, and panic only grew worse.

Someone ran blindly through the town, and in a careless step trod into molten lead — his entire foot was seared through in an instant, and he tumbled into the flames. Soon engulfed, he let out a piercing scream, writhing and wailing on the ground for over ten minutes before slowly dying.

The captain roared: "Don't be afraid! Hold the warehouse! Everyone, take up arms!"

At the town center, before the newly built simple church, a black-robed friar raised a cross high and proclaimed in a loud voice: "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Behold, the cross of the Lord! Flee, ye forces of evil! I exorcise thee, unclean spirit…"

The friar's voice was calm and carried far; the exorcism prayer was intoned in classical Latin, filled with a sense of the sacred.

Many Spaniards felt called to him, gathered at the friar's side, and prayed in unison following the prayers of the Rosary: "Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle…"

Prayer could not stop the flames.

On the palisade wall, lit thermite charges kept spinning in through the air, like falling meteors.

The fuses burned to the end, and the thermite began violent oxidation-reduction; glowing red molten lead flowed, scorching the ground so the gravel hissed and spat, sending up wisps of blue smoke. San Salvador's makeshift palisade was only a bit taller than a man, made of timber — the moment it touched molten lead, the moisture and organic matter in the wooden stakes were heated past boiling point in an instant and vaporized outright.

Violent cracking sounds erupted, wood splinters flew, and the contact points blackened instantly.

Soon the palisade too blazed with orange-red flames, and great billows of grey-white smoke mingled with yellowish-green fumes rose up — those were the highly toxic particles of lead oxide. The more thermite was thrown, the more terrifying the fire in the town became; tongues of flame leaped three or four men tall, shifting into all manner of shapes in the air, illuminating the entire bay bright as day.

The fire burned with savage speed, roaring and whooshing, punctuated by the crackling burst of timber — the sound was so loud and so dense that it might as well have been a series of small explosions.

The sheer roar of the flames completely drowned out the prayers before the church.

Though the Spaniards' faith was firm, the heat was truly unbearable — their mouths and throats parched, eyebrows and hair singed away, even the very oils of their bodies squeezed out through their skin.

More and more people began to flee, and the crowd before the church scattered to nothing in short order.

The friar stood fearless, his voice growing ever more fervent. His black robe was pocked with countless holes from sparks, and a wall of fire was bearing down on the church. Soon the friar was swallowed by the flames; that solemn prayer turned into a piercing scream, and a human-shaped fireball burst out from the wall of fire, ran some thirty-odd paces, and then collapsed to the ground, motionless.

Outside the palisade, Chen Jiao and his men — even upwind — could hardly withstand the rolling waves of heat.

Chen Jiao wiped the sweat from his brow and ordered: "Pull back now, damn it, or we'll be roasted too! Go!"

At the command, his men hoisted the remaining thermite charges and ran for the small boats.

The island where San Salvador stood was extremely close to shore — no more than two or three hundred paces — and the sailors reached the beach in a few strokes of the oars.

After landing, they turned back to look, and saw that the Spanish stockade town had become a single blazing torch.

In the firelight, many figures were streaming out of the town, scattering in flight.

In the forest along the shore, Siraya warriors stood in a line, cutting off every route the Spaniards could take back to their ships.

Before Aban lay three trophies already.

Anya had also claimed a head.

These were all men who had fled to the shore and been ambushed and killed by the Siraya.

The Siraya warriors knew the jungle terrain intimately; a single man could watch over a large area.

With several hundred spread out like an inescapable net covering miles in every direction, no enemy could slip past their blades.

Seeing Chen Jiao return, Aban grinned and said: "Han man, those burned to death — they don't count as your headhunt."

A tremendous boom came from within San Salvador, and a black mushroom cloud rose into the sky.

Several more sympathetic explosions followed — the powder magazine must have blown.

Aban stared dumbfounded, then added: "Those blown up don't count either!"

Aboard the San Felipe, the crew stared at the scene before them, frozen in shock.

Their own stronghold had fallen faster than the sea battle had gone…

With the fleet having lost its port and its shore supplies, even if they won, how could they survive on Formosa Island?

What's more, the enemy had split their forces to destroy their shore stronghold even while fighting at sea — with such tactical ability and such numbers, could they still win? Though the San Felipe carried fifty cannons and had always been regarded as the pride of the Manila navy.

Yet the crew had lost their nerve.

To most of the sailors, the enemy's fire-starting, flute-blowing, and sailing against the wind were all sorcery and black magic.

Without a friar chanting exorcism prayers, they could never prevail.

And watching the church blazing fiercely within the stronghold…

It seemed the demon's power was too great — even the friar was no match.

"Three hundred paces!" The lookout's shout snapped the sailors back to reality.

"Prepare to engage!" Carinio struggled to control his voice, making it sound steady and calm to the others.

"Aye! Strike the sails, ready the guns!" the first mate bellowed across the deck.

"Two hundred paces!"

"Boom! Boom! Boom…"

The Candle Dragon fired first — slow-burning black powder drove solid iron shot down the bronze barrel.

With a thunderous roar the cannonball left the muzzle; high-temperature, high-pressure gases at over two thousand degrees, carrying carbon particles and potassium sulfide granules, blasted into the air, igniting a violent secondary combustion.

A ball of orange-red muzzle flash formed.

Thirty-two cannons fired in a single volley, the muzzle flashes illuminating a vast expanse of sea, even faintly lighting the side of the San Felipe. The Candle Dragon's description — "when it closes its eyes, darkness falls; when it opens them, light dawns" — was perfectly borne out in that moment.

According to the oral gunnery manual Lei Sanxiang had drawn up, gunners were required to turn their backs when firing, lest the muzzle flash leave afterimages dancing before their eyes. The unbroken succession of red light froze everything on the Candle Dragon's two gun decks into something like a stop-motion picture.

Gunners with hands over their ears and mouths open, dust flying across the decks, recoil ropes pulled taut by the backlash, cannon ports of varying sizes in the hull — all frozen in an instant by the muzzle flashes.

With two gun decks firing, a single broadside truly sounded like heaven and earth were being torn apart.

The thunder of the muzzles reverberated between the decks, leaving men's chests tight, their soles numb, their hearts skipping half a beat.

After the cannon fire subsided, gunsmoke poured back in through the gun ports, the acrid stench of sulfur flooding the hold until it was like a heavy fog all around — visibility so poor you couldn't see your own hand before your face.

"Reload! Quick, quick, quick! Move it! Stop your damn coughing — if you're afraid of gunpowder, what are you doing as a gunner? Reload!"

Under the gun captain's crude cursing, the gunners worked the cannons almost completely blind.

A good naval gunner never relies on his eyes; loading is done through the muscle memory forged by rigorous drill.

As the smoke slowly thinned, the gunners on the Candle Dragon's upper gun deck loaded with orderly precision.

Through the gun ports, red flashes could be seen blinking in succession across the distant sea, followed by the rumble of cannon fire.

"Enemy ship firing!" someone shouted from the upper deck.

Before the words died out, a low whistling sound came through, and the Candle Dragon's hull split open without warning as a solid iron shot tore in, kicking up endless dust and splinters.

The sound of teak planking shattering and splinters flying was deafening, filling the entire hold and chilling the heart of any who heard it.

One gunner was struck by a shot, his belly ripped open on the spot, arms and legs torn away — a scene of utter carnage.

The gun captain never stopped roaring: "Damn it all, don't stop, you lot! Reload, reload!"

"Boom!" A cannonball smashed into the gun deck, slammed into the hull on the far side, and let out a tremendous crash.

The range had been too great; the shot had lost its momentum, failed to punch through the far side, and rolled to a stop at the gun captain's feet.

The gun captain casually kicked it, sending the solid iron ball rolling out through a hole in the hull and into the sea.

"Blast every last one of the bastards to hell, and we'll be fine!" the gun captain roared on without pause.

A moment later, the gunners reported in turn.

"Ready………"

The gun captain peered through a fresh cannon port that a twelve-pounder had smashed in the hull, gazing toward the enemy ship.

At the same time, he felt the ship's roll through his feet — waiting until she rode a wave crest and the hull sat roughly level with the sea.

The gun captain swept his hand down: "Fire!"

On both gun decks, thirty-two bronze cannons thundered in sequence.

The recoil wrenched the hull until it groaned.

As the guns fired, the other soldiers braved the thunder and smoke, groping their way as they carried the wounded down to the cargo hold — the lowest part of the ship, below the waterline, safe from cannon fire.

Three "operating tables" were laid out in a row, the deck beneath layered with blood and sand that had caked into a thick padding.

The surgeons Su Kang had trained worked one hand preparing acupuncture needles while the other heated knives and saws over flames, as apprentices stood by, liberally dousing wounds with the Green Plum Studio's secret trauma ointment as if it cost nothing.

With battle raging and the wounded coming in thick, there was no time for anesthesia.

The surgeons' methods were brutally rough, cold-blooded to the extreme, paying no heed to the patients' screams.

Fortunately, all three surgeons were among Su Kang's earliest apprentices, having served aboard the Tianyuan for years with vast experience.

The lower hold pitched without cease, lantern light flickering dim and bright, screams and cannon fire mingling into one.

Even in such extreme conditions, the three surgeons placed their needles with uncanny accuracy, and many a man owed his life to them.

On the companionways, sailors hauling gunpowder came and went in an endless stream, along with a great number of carpenter's apprentices scurrying past with timber.

On the lower deck near the waterline, carpenters were patching cannon holes with planks, urging all the while: "Hurry, run faster! Give me that wood! Damn it, if you trip and fall one more time, I'll plug the hole with your fingers!"

Young apprentices who had never seen such a scene were scared stiff, snot and tears streaming down their faces.

The seasoned apprentices, by contrast, wore cold, impassive faces, hurrying planks forward while gripping ship nails in the other hand, a small bucket of tung oil — with hemp cord already soaking in it — hanging from their wrists.

The carpenter took the plank, grabbed nails and hammer, and with a few clang-clang-clangs had it nailed fast over the breach; the seawater flooding into the hold immediately slowed to a trickle.

The carpenter swung his hammer with blinding speed, his arm a blur in the air — no nail took more than three strokes to drive home — fitting each plank tight as a seal, then snatched the hemp cord from the tung oil bucket and deftly caulked the seams, making sure no seawater could spurt through the gaps into the hold.

The hold was pitch dark, and the passageways of the lower deck were none too wide; sailors hauling powder, shifting shot, and fetching rope threaded through them without cease, the deck pitching beneath their feet while thunderous cannon fire pounded from overhead.

In such conditions, the carpenters patched leaks with astonishing speed, their movements fluid and practiced — pure muscle memory at work.

Before long, the hole was roughly plugged.

A plank stood nailed awkwardly across the hull like a patch — a stopgap measure for the heat of battle. Once the ship reached dry dock, the patch would be removed and the hull planking replaced.

Even after the carpenter's repair, seawater still seeped through the patch in a thin trickle, but for a vessel of the Candle Dragon's tonnage, such a leak was negligible.

On the upper deck, a dozen or so men at the pumps worked the capstan round and round under the boatswain's direction.

The men gritted their teeth, stripped to the waist, shoulder and back muscles bulging and slick with oily sweat.

As the capstan turned, the bilge pumps worked without stop, streams of seawater pouring from the scuppers on both sides.

The boatswain watched the flow gradually diminish, knew the hole at the waterline had been plugged, and bellowed at the top of his lungs over the cannon fire: "Stop!"

The pump men halted the water wheel and went to help carry the wounded.

The boatswain trotted to below the quarterdeck and shouted up: "Helmsman, the hole's plugged!"

The helmsman reported to Bailangzai: "Captain, the waterline is secure."

Bailangzai's face was cold as frost as he nodded slowly. A hundred-odd paces before him, the San Felipe was running parallel to the Candle Dragon.

The broadside cannons of both ships thundered without cease, the whole sea shrouded in gunsmoke. Farther off, the Spaniards' fort stood like a great burning stake, its blaze paling the very stars and moon, half the sky turned crimson, vast stretches of sea shimmering with reflected light.

"What of the Tianyuan?" Bailangzai asked coolly.

The helmsman pulled out a telescope, peered northwest across the sea, then reported with delight: "She's done — the Tianyuan is sailing this way!"

Bailangzai asked again: "What are our losses?"

"Five guns destroyed, thirty-odd casualties."

"Understood."

This damage was entirely acceptable for the Zhulong. Even without the Tianyuan's support, defeating the enemy vessel would not be difficult. Aboard the San Felipe, however, the situation was quite another matter.

Up on the masts, the sail-handlers, following the first mate's orders, hauled and released ropes without cease, swinging back and forth in the pitch-black sky at heights of thirty to forty meters above the deck, lit only by the glow of the burning fort.

From time to time, a sail-handler would lose his footing from the ship's rolling and plummet down.

"Ah—thud!"

The death cry before impact, followed by the dull sound of a body smashing to pulp upon the deck, was enough to make anyone's scalp crawl.

The lookout's voice had gone hoarse, yet he still shouted in despair: "Enemy vessel approaching on the port side, distance one thousand paces; enemy vessel closing on the starboard side, one hundred fifty paces!" The San Felipe's position was now extremely awkward—on her port side bore the Tianyuan, bearing down with menacing intent.

On her starboard side was the Zhulong, pressing ever closer.

She was on the verge of being caught in a pincer attack from both sides.

The first mate was so frantic he wished he could pull out an oar and start rowing himself.

Carinio, seeking to avoid the unfavorable situation, had already ordered the ship through multiple rounds of maneuvering.

Yet when it came to agility and maneuverability, how could the San Felipe, with her square-rigged sails as her primary propulsion, possibly match the fully-rigged Zhulong?

After several rounds of maneuvering, not only had she failed to escape the disadvantageous position, but she had several times nearly exposed her stern.

Had her turns not been quick enough, the San Felipe would have been shot clean through from stern to stern—like a cannonball rammed up her arse and out her throat!

Watching the Tianyuan draw closer and closer, Carinio's heart was filled with despair, and he had already cursed Diego eight hundred times in his mind.

That damned executioner who belongs in hell—why pick a fight with anyone, let alone the Great Ming people!

Dear God! The Ming navy... why are they so strong?

Carinio roared inwardly: "Damn that Manila Governor-General! When he sent the expedition out of port, why did he not say a single word about the strength of the Ming navy? This is madness! Both governors, the previous and the current, are complete incompetents! How has the House of Habsburg managed to raise so many useless gluttons?"

"Boom, boom, boom..."

Amid his curses, the Zhulong loosed another volley, sending the San Felipe heeling violently from side to side, with planks and splinters flying everywhere—like a peacock pie smashed apart by a single hammer blow!

"Ah—splash!"

Another sail-handler fell from the mast. He was luckier—he landed in the sea.

"Enemy vessel on the port side, eight hundred paces!" The lookout updated the distance, his tone sounding like he was announcing a death countdown.

Just then, a sailor scrambled up from the hatchway and shouted at the boatswain: "Two hits below the waterline—get the pumps going now!" The boatswain dared not delay and bellowed orders at once. Soon, great streams of seawater were gushing from the scuppers on both sides.

A moment later, the gun captain shouted up to the upper deck: "We're short of gunners! Anyone with all limbs intact, get down here and work the guns!"

The boatswain helped pick men from the open deck, finally selecting twenty and sending them down to the gun deck.

But no sooner had they descended than another bright flash of muzzle fire erupted from the Zhulong's broadside, and solid shot slammed down mercilessly.

Aboard the San Felipe, another round of piercing screams rang out.

Amid the splintering of wood came the crew's weeping and their prayers and confessions to God.

This scene of imminent catastrophe, accompanied by firelight and wailing, felt both familiar and strange to Carinio.

In the blink of an eye, the Zhulong fired several more broadsides.

The lookout shouted in a trembling voice: "Enemy vessel on the port side, two hundred paces!"

The Tianyuan finally joined the battle. She immediately turned her helm to port, presenting her starboard side to the San Felipe, and her gunners, unable to contain themselves, lit and fired. "Boom, boom, boom..."

Immediately after, the Zhulong on the starboard side delivered another full broadside as well.

The San Felipe was struck by more than thirty cannonballs at once, and the sound of planks snapping could be heard from every part of the hull.

The gun deck had virtually no ability to fight back.

The surviving crew members were all on their knees, begging for God's mercy.

Carinio gazed at everything before him, his whole body trembling. After struggling for a long while, he said in anguish: "Lower the sails. Let us surrender."

The first mate, as if granted a reprieve, immediately shouted to the crew: "Lower the sails quickly! Raise the white flag! We surrender!"

These words were like a shot of stimulant injected into the praying crew. Everyone struggled up from the deck and frantically worked the rigging. At the stern, the Burgundian cross flag was lowered, and a makeshift white flag of sailcloth was raised in its place.

The gunfire from the Zhulong and the Tianyuan came to a halt.

Out of caution, Bailangzai ordered that a small boat be sent over to board the vessel first.

An hour later, a green signal flare shot up from the San Felipe.

Bailangzai ordered the Zhulong to close in.

When the two ships drew alongside, the Spaniards had already been bound with ropes and made to kneel on the deck.

The San Felipe's size and tonnage were already top-tier in the Manila colony, yet the Zhulong was a full size larger still.

When they saw the dense rows of gunports along the Zhulong's port side, her enormous and complex rigging, and her streamlined hull, the Spaniards all held their breath, their faces filled with disbelief.

At that time, the world's acknowledged finest shipwrights were the Dutch.

Even many of the Spanish Empire's new warships were built following Dutch design concepts.

Never had they imagined that their model for emulation was entirely wrong.

Holy Mother above—the Ming people's ships looked far more advanced than the Dutch!

The sailors of Manila all knew that the Great Ming had once possessed a legendary fleet.

According to legend, two hundred years earlier, the Great Ming had been capable of building seagoing vessels the size of castles, and its fleet could spread across the sea in a formation covering more than ten li in every direction. The Spanish, Dutch, Portuguese, and English colonies in the East Indies today had all been forced to submit to this Ming fleet two hundred years ago.

The people of the Great Ming called it the "Zheng He Fleet."

This story was ancient, and no actual vessels from it survived.

Recalling the small Ming boats they had seen in Manila, the Spanish sailors had assumed this was just another fabricated joke, like the feathered serpent god, the sun god, or Shiva.

Never did they imagine that today they would see a real Ming treasure ship.

At this moment, Carinio wished he could strangle the Manila Governor-General with his own hands: "With the Ming navy possessing strength like this, what was he thinking sending me to lead an expedition to colonize Formosa? Three Spanish warships lost—this is outright treason!"

Meanwhile, carpenters, sailors, and marines were steadily boarding from the Zhulong.

These men divided the work among themselves—some stood guard over the Spanish prisoners, some worked the winches to pump out water, some repaired the rigging, and some patched the holes at the waterline. Their movements were practiced, orderly, and efficient—even more skilled than the most seasoned sailors in Manila.

The rush repairs on the San Felipe continued all the way until dawn.

The Santiago, which had been turned into a ghost ship by the Zhulong, and the Nuestra Señora de la Victoria, which had been smashed into sesame brittle by the Tianyuan, were also towed back to port by small boats. These two ships were too heavily damaged, having lost all capacity for ocean voyages—they could never cross the Dongning Strait again. They could only be dismantled on the spot, with the guns, cannons, and valuables collected, and the timber recycled.

In this battle, the Zhulong and Tianyuan had also suffered no light damage, and the San Felipe was left with barely half a life in her.

The timber stripped from the two Spanish warships served just right for the repairs.

At daybreak, Bailangzai returned to Puerto de San Salvador.

According to Anya, this place occupied by the Spaniards had originally had its own name—the local Pingpu people called it "Jilong Bay." And that great river which the Spanish explorers had named the "Río Formosa," the locals called the "Tamsui River."

Acting on Lin Qian's orders, Bailangzai voided every name the colonists had given.

At the same time, all traces of the Spaniards' presence were erased—anything of value was loaded aboard ship, and whatever was worthless was burned on the spot.

Goods plundered from the surrounding tribes were returned and restored wherever possible.

According to the tally, in the Battle of Jilong Harbor, Spanish soldiers and sailors together suffered over seven hundred dead and wounded, with more than four hundred taken prisoner. As for the prisoners, Chen Jiao had already settled on a method of disposal—they were to be sent to Zhuqian for forced labor.

Since the Spaniards had destroyed the villagers' houses and slaughtered their livestock, let them go be the livestock themselves, laboring until they died.

Unlike Nan'ao Island, Zhuqian was a truly wild and barbarous land, full of venomous insects, fierce beasts, and marshes. Reclaiming it was extremely dangerous—people really did die in large numbers.

The lives of Fujian migrants were precious and could not be lightly squandered, so the cost of developing this place was very high.

Using this batch of Spaniards as expendable material raised no such concerns.

Chen Jiao estimated that these men's average survival time probably would not exceed one month.

When his subordinates tallied the captured Fujian junks, they found the number did not match the prisoners' confessions.

Only upon closer questioning did they learn that Montero had again set out with two ships and a crew of one hundred twenty men, exploring along the eastern coastline of Dongning Island.

Upon hearing this, along with the legend of that "River of Gold,"

Chen Jiao revealed a smile that made the Spanish prisoners shudder: "Oh ho—still a few fish that slipped the net."

The Zhulong and Tianyuan had just come through a great battle and were not fit to put to sea.

Moreover, the enemy numbered only a little over a hundred. Under Chen Jiao's command, he had over two hundred of his own soldiers alone, plus more than four hundred Siraya warriors.

That many heads weren't even enough to go around.

And so Chen Jiao declined the escort of the gunboats, taking only eight Fujian junks. With Spaniards who knew the expedition's situation aboard, he set off for the east coast without a moment's pause.

Just as the expedition's lives were entering their final countdown—

At a river mouth on the east coast of Dongning Island, Spaniards were rolling up their trouser legs and groping about in the river, while two Fujian junks sat at anchor on the sea not far from the estuary. Little Wa'er rose from the water, a round pan in his hands. The current had washed all the sand and gravel away, leaving behind in the pan a scattering of glittering golden things. Trembling all over with excitement, he shouted: "Gold, it's gold! Lieutenant, we've found gold! This must be the River of Gold!" All along the river, Spaniards were panning for gold with vessels of every kind, and from time to time someone would rise and exclaim excitedly: "There's gold over here too!" On a great boulder by the riverbank, Lieutenant Montero held the old captain's journal, comparing the surrounding scenery against it again and again—it matched the account exactly. He put the journal away, both thrilled and incredulous, and muttered to himself: "'The River of Gold'... Doromalan, I've finally found it!"

Yahei

Pink Round

Pen