Chapter 235: An Army's Defeat Comes Crashing Down Like a Mountain

As Leon's mercenaries marched to Hook Cape, they heard the rumble of cannon fire rolling across the sea.

Gazing out at the water, they could faintly see two fleets exchanging broadsides on the horizon to the northeast.

That was the Governor-General's navy launching an attack on the Nan'ao forces blockading the sea.

The Governor-General's navy was at a disadvantage in both tonnage and firepower—the battle was almost certainly lost before it began. The purpose of the attack was simply to draw the Nan'ao fleet's attention and keep their warships from supporting the land battle with their guns.

The navy could only buy a limited amount of time, so Leon had to win quickly.

Emerging from the dense jungle of the peninsula, an open field appeared before him—the ground was barren of any vegetation, all fresh earth.

Clearly, this open ground had been artificially built up.

Beyond the open field lay the Nan'ao forces' siege camp, with a trench position wedged between the camp and the open ground.

The position stretched roughly three hundred fifty meters, completely blocking the road to the shipyard.

Leon raised his telescope and studied the position carefully, his heart gradually sinking.

He could see roughly fifteen cannons arrayed along the position, each sheltered behind breastworks and sandbags.

Moreover, the gun emplacements had been built with sharp protruding angles, looking like a simplified version of bastion fortifications.

In front of the breastworks ran a ditch two men wide, of unknown depth.

Beyond the ditch lay that open field—roughly five hundred meters long, perfectly flat, with no cover whatsoever.

The earth had been packed hard and given a slight slope, ideal for producing ricochets.

In Vauban's siege methodology, this kind of trench was called a "counter-approach trench" or "blockade trench," designed specifically to stop enemy reinforcements. In Europe at this time, Marshal Vauban had not yet been born, but the Thirty Years' War was raging, and it had already given birth to the blockade trench's predecessors.

Manila sat at the other end of the world; Leon had assumed that bastions and cannons would be enough to dominate. He never imagined that the Easterners would be not only ahead in seafaring but first-rate in siegecraft as well.

The layout of the siege position had already been reported to the Governor-General's palace by scouts over the past half month—but hearing a verbal report and seeing it with one's own eyes were entirely different things.

The Great Ming's blockade trench before him looked like nothing less than a simplified bastion.

"Boom, boom, boom!" Cannon fire rumbled from the northeastern sea. Leon knew he could hesitate no longer—the arrow was already on the string. He raised his hand and shouted: "Artillery, prepare!"

The artillery lieutenant ordered his men to bring up twelve horse-drawn cannons, unload and load them before the open field, and fire at the enemy's gun positions.

"Boom, boom, boom…"

At over five hundred meters, the cannons had almost no accuracy—the shells scattered wildly.

A few rounds landed in the siege camp, punching through several tents and causing minor chaos among the enemy, but the firing points on the blockade trench were untouched.

The purpose of this cannonade was simply to draw the enemy's fire and cover the infantry charge.

Soon the blockade trench returned fire, its shells landing just as erratically—at this range, hitting a target the size of a cannon was almost pure luck. Leon observed for a while and discerned that the enemy's guns were mainly concentrated at the two ends of the position, north and south. He quickly formulated his battle plan. "Captain Don!" Leon called out.

"Your Excellency!" A native officer responded.

This man was named Don Macapagal. He came from a chieftain family in the Pampanga region of Luzon—Macapagal was his original surname. Because his tribe had been among the first to convert to the Catholic faith, and his people were fierce and skilled in battle, they had long supplied soldiers to the Governor-General's palace.

To honor his merits, the Governor-General had bestowed upon him the honorific title of Don and granted him the rank of captain.

Captain Don was around forty years old, his skin tanned brown-yellow by the scorching sun and sea wind. He wore a Spanish-style linen shirt under a padded cotton-and-linen jack, a Kampilan sword at his hip, a heavy Spanish matchlock musket on his shoulder, and a musket rest in his other hand.

"Your company will attack the northern end of the enemy position."

"Kusai, you will lead the ronin company against the southern end."

"Hai!"

Kusai was a samurai from Hirado. Having lost everything in the cargo-voucher incident, unwilling to suffer humiliation yet unwilling to commit seppuku, he had killed his creditor and fled by ship to Manila.

In Manila, ronin like him were a dime a dozen—the price of their swordsmanship was even cheaper than that of Luzon's natives.

Kusai was one of the rare samurai who had converted to the Catholic faith, which was why Leon had made him the ronin commander.

Leon drew his rapier and pointed it diagonally at the sky: "For glory and for pesos—attack!"

"Kill!" The two forces struck from north and south, like the upper and lower fangs of a lion, biting hard into the blockade trench with terrifying momentum.

Captain Don drew his Kampilan sword and charged at the very front, the cross on his chest swinging wildly, shouting in his native tongue: "Ancestral spirits, protect me!" On the position ahead, the cannon muzzles flashed red, and the roar of the guns and the thunder of shells striking earth came almost simultaneously.

Several shells landed in front of the native company, bounced up, and tore viciously into their ranks.

A chorus of screams and cries erupted around Captain Don's ears, and warm liquid splattered across his face.

He ran and shouted: "Spread out! Disperse!"

Soon a second volley arrived, the dirt kicked up by the impacts nearly blotting out his view entirely.

Captain Don shielded his eyes with his hand, peering through his fingers to see the way, keeping the soil from getting in.

The screams behind him had quieted considerably. A native shouted: "Don't stop! Keep charging! If we can just reach close quarters, we've won!" On the blockade trench, Wang Ruzhong sat at the center, scouts continuously updating the range.

"Three hundred paces."

"Two hundred paces."

"One hundred fifty paces."

The open field ahead had long been marked with distance indicators—the measurements were exact.

Wang Ruzhong said in a low voice: "Switch to grapeshot."

Runners on Jeju horses galloped along the position, shouting the order.

The twelve-pounder heavy cannons on the blockade trench had all been taken off the Yahat's ships—cumbersome to move, but devastating in power.

With one volley, the grapeshot flew thick as a net that leaves no survivors, and the earth around the impact zone boiled and churned like water coming to a rolling boil.

Natives and ronin fell in swathes, turning into mist of blood.

"Volley fire!" Wang Ruzhong shouted.

Behind the breastworks, six hundred marine musketeers had long since loaded their weapons, keeping their match cords burning. Upon the order, they leaned out and fired at the enemy. The marines held the newest Foye Arsenal Type-01 matchlock muskets—built on the Portuguese matchlock design but with a lengthened barrel, reinforced stock, and increased powder charge.

Range, power, and accuracy had all been improved.

Using oil-paper-wrapped pre-measured powder charges also sped up reloading.

The soldiers sheltered behind the breastworks, firing at intervals from one another—the psychological pressure was far lighter, they could take aim, and their fire was continuous and unbroken.

Wang Ruzhong raised his telescope and watched the two enemy forces to the north and south fall like wheat before the scythe, men dropping without end.

Neither army had formed battle lines; they scattered and charged in chaos, so not many were actually hit by gunfire or cannon.

"Fifty paces!" the scout reported.

As the distance closed, the Type-01 matchlock muskets grew ever more accurate, and the gunsmoke above the breastwork nearly congealed into a solid mass that refused to dissipate.

One after another, enemy soldiers crumpled to the ground.

The stopping power of the lead balls was obvious — if one struck the chest, it was like being slammed by an invisible giant hammer, the charge abruptly halting as the man toppled backward. If it struck the leg, the man was tripped into the air and slammed down face-first, legs over head.

"Twenty paces!"

"Fix bayonets." Wang Ruzhong ordered.

"Fix bayonets!" From every position along the line came the hoarse shouts of squad leaders.

The musketeers opened their bayonet scabbards and locked the triangular bayonets onto the barrel lugs.

With the bayonet fixed, the Type-01 matchlock musket reached five feet five inches in length — no different from a short spear.

Each banner company, following the tasks assigned beforehand, took up positions guarding the entrances and exits of the trenches.

A gentle upward slope lay before the trench, so the trench sat on higher ground. Many native soldiers only realized there was a ditch when they charged right up to its edge, and unable to check their momentum, tumbled straight in.

The ditch was two meters deep; land wrong and you'd break bones or snap tendons on the spot.

But the mud cushioned the fall, and most native warriors just came up covered in muck, none the worse for wear.

They tried to climb out, but the Nan'ao marines above had the high ground and stabbed down hard with their bayonets.

The native soldiers' shoulders and arms were punched full of bloody holes, and screaming, they tumbled back into the mud.

"There's a way up over here!" someone shouted from afar in the native tongue.

The soldiers who had fallen into the trench made their way toward the voice, and sure enough found a gentle upward slope.

But the slope was ringed by heavily armed marines.

The native soldiers drew the kampilan swords from their waists and charged upward with all their might.

This sword was single-edged, shaped like a machete, over a meter long, its pommel decorated with crocodiles and other fierce beasts — primitive and savage to behold.

Legend had it that Magellan himself had died beneath such a blade.

But against shields and sabers to the front, spears and bayonets on the flanks, and wolf-tooth maces overhead, this meter-long sword was a joke.

The natives in front were stabbed into sieves of bloody holes, retreating with wails for their fathers and mothers, while those behind kept surging forward.

The natives in the middle were squeezed so tight they could neither advance nor retreat, nearly suffocating.

The marines on both flanks were all veterans; their hands showed no mercy as bayonets stabbed down without pause.

Blood and shreds of flesh splattered across the marines' faces from time to time, yet it never slowed their thrusting.

In an instant, that entire stretch of slope became a hell on earth.

In the siege trench, there were several such slopes, normally used for the besiegers' traffic; in defense, they became traps to lure the enemy in.

Captain Tang watched his people being slaughtered, his eyes splitting with rage. He shouted: "Agua, take men and return fire with the muskets! Ayu, bring ladders, rescue them!" "Yes, Chieftain!"

Agua led more than twenty men, planted their rests in the ground, took the matchlock muskets from their shoulders, set the barrels on the rests, and connected the serpentine to the burning match. They pulled the triggers and fired.

The heavy matchlock's powerful recoil sent Agua stumbling backward, his shoulder throbbing with pain.

His companions fired one after another.

A curtain of shot swept toward the densest cluster of marines.

Those hit had small wounds at the entry point, but the lead balls shattered, tearing through flesh and creating an immense cavitation effect, leaving a massive exit wound behind as if the flesh had exploded.

The marines were shrouded in a mist of blood; more than a dozen fell, and their assault momentarily stalled.

Seizing the opening, Ayu lowered a dozen-odd ladders into the trench, letting the comrades who had fallen in climb back out.

Five hundred paces away, Leon watched this through his telescope, furious, and punched the air — startling his warhorse into a skittish start.

Leon cursed at the top of his lungs: "Idiots! Those ladders were for your attack, not for rescuing people! Damned fools! Stopping before the artillery position — if you want to die, that's no way to do it! Uncivilized savages!"

The Spanish matchlock had a high muzzle, a long barrel, and was extremely slow to reload.

After Agua's group fired their volley, their guns fell silent as they drew out ramrods as tall as themselves and cleaned their barrels on the spot.

Not far from them, at a gun battery position, the gun captain was roaring abuse at his men: "Got donkey hair stuffed in your ears? Can't hear gunfire right on top of you? Swing the guns around and blast the bastards!"

"Yes, sir!" the gun crew answered in unison, then smoothly swung the muzzles around.

The gaping black maws of the twelve-pounder Siren cannons now faced the natives reloading in place.

"Flat trajectory, grapeshot, full charge!" the gun captain bellowed.

He judged by eye that the natives were only twenty or thirty meters from the position — at that range there was no need for firing tables; just use the cannon like an oversized musket and fire flat. The crew worked in division of labor, loading and aiming with great speed.

Loading the cylindrical canister of grapeshot and inserting the fuse were done almost simultaneously.

"Ready!" the soldiers called out one by one.

"Fire!" The gun captain slashed his hand down hard.

The match cord dropped, hissing, then the muzzle flashed red and roared as nine solid shot balls blasted forth through the gunsmoke.

Each single ball's size and kinetic energy far surpassed the lead balls of the heavy matchlocks.

Every body of flesh and blood in their path was torn apart; enemies close by were blown to pieces outright, and the balls, their momentum undiminished, punched through the next ranks of foes.

The enemy formation looked as if an invisible dragon's breath had washed over it — in an entire fan-shaped zone, nearly every enemy was dead or wounded.

Close to twenty native soldiers fell, and the formation suddenly gaped open.

Agua, still reloading his musket, never had time to react before he became a spray of shredded flesh hurled into the sky.

At the same time, the marine musketeers behind the breastwork opened fire in reply; the lead balls came in an almost unbroken stream, and the native warriors standing at the far end of the trench were like living targets, falling in rows and swaths.

Since throwing in with the Spanish, Captain Tang had fought either Luzon natives or those shengli people who only knew how to do business.

With the Spanish supplying weapons and logistics, every engagement had been a one-sided slaughter.

Captain Tang had thus developed the delusion that his tribal warriors were invincible under heaven — who could have guessed that in today's battle, the shengli army before him, a force stronger than anything he had ever seen, would turn the tables in an instant and make his tribal warriors the ones being slaughtered.

He looked around him — the bodies of native warriors lay strewn across the ground.

There were also countless wounded, clutching their mangled limbs, writhing and screaming in the blood and mud.

And over a hundred of their tribesmen were sprinting back in full retreat.

In the blocking trench, several dozen tribesmen still hadn't managed to climb out. On the gentle slope approaching the enemy, the tribesmen's corpses lay piled layer upon layer, almost leveling the slope flat, and the muddy water in the ditch had been dyed blood-red.

Captain Tang's eyes reddened instantly. He raised his Campilan sword and roared: "People of Shengli, the ancestral spirits curse—"

"Boom!" Before he could finish, a cannon at the nearby battery fired a shot straight at them.

Grapeshot swept in like a deadly gale.

The warrior in front of Captain Tang was instantly ripped open from chest to belly, chunks of flesh mixed with blood and iron shot blasting backward.

Before Captain Tang could even react, an iron ball the size of a grape kept growing larger in his vision, striking him dead center between the eyebrows.

The back of Captain Tang's skull blew apart, half his head turning into red-and-white matter that splattered more than a dozen paces behind him.

That single shot cleared out a huge swath of the native soldiers behind the trench.

The remaining native soldiers couldn't hold on any longer. They tossed aside weapons caked with their comrades' flesh and blood, and scrambled away on all fours, fleeing for their lives.

Meanwhile, the ronin attacking the southern flank were nimble and far more ruthless toward their comrades who fell into the trench. They stepped cleanly across the ditch and engaged the marines. These ronin were skilled with both blade and spear—the moment they charged into the marine formation they began hacking and slashing wildly, their movements broad and sweeping, blood raining all around. After a brief moment of panic, several squad leaders bellowed at their men to form up. The mandarin-duck formation took shape and slowly advanced.

The ronin's weakness at fighting only as individuals was exposed completely, and their line steadily contracted and fell back.

A ronin shouted: "We can't retreat any further—the trench is behind us!"

"Charge forward! Cut their formation apart with our blades!"

"Baka! This is Qi Jiguang's mandarin-duck formation—breaking it is utterly absurd!"

One samurai refused to believe it. He picked up a long spear and roared at the top of his lungs: "I am Sakamoto Kawachi! Today I shall become a shooting star and pierce the enemy's lines—let heaven and earth bear witness!"

With that, he let out a beast-like howl and charged forward in great strides. Three or four paces short of the enemy, a wolf-brush spear jabbed straight into his face.

Sakamoto Kawachi rolled flat along the ground, dodging skillfully—but before he could even get back to his feet, a long spear stabbed into his calf.

In the next instant, another spear pierced his throat.

Sakamoto Kawachi's face was full of unwillingness, gurgling sounds spilling from his throat as he collapsed limply.

His spear technique may have been superb, but in that single exchange, he died nothing like a shooting star—more like a stone that never even skipped across the water. "Ah!" Another samurai screamed as he tumbled into the trench.

"We've lost! Run!" A ronin shouted, scrambling back up the ladder they'd come in on.

But defeat crumbles like a mountain topple. Everyone fought to get on the ladder, only to trample it to pieces, and more ronin, shoved from behind, tumbled into the trench. The ronin commander Kūsai, caught off guard, missed his footing and fell backward too, landing in a mess of mud and water, losing even the katana in his hand. He no longer cared about the sword or samurai honor—he only wanted to survive.

The muddy water beneath his feet was stained a dark red by blood, looking like a river of blood flowing out of hell itself.

He ran through it, his ears filled with the death screams and wails of his comrades.

"Kaasan (Mother)!" A young ronin lay in the river of blood, his face streaming with tears, wailing without pause.

Both his legs were broken, a stretch of ghastly white shattered bone jutting from his left ankle.

The ronin could only cry and howl as he crawled forward through the muck.

Kūsai fought back his nausea and tears, his steps unceasing as he kept running forward.

Splash! A corpse fell right in front of him, splashing up a spray of dark-red muddy water.

Kūsai gasped in shock and accidentally swallowed a big mouthful. The taste was overwhelmingly earthy, mixed with rot, stench, and a faint cloying sweetness. His stomach convulsed violently, and he doubled over and vomited.

He wiped his mouth, gritted his teeth against the nausea, and pressed on. Gunfire crackled endlessly overhead, more and more bodies thudding down, the trench filled with splash after splash.

He was soaked through, his body trembling. Even in the tropics, this trench felt like a frozen hell.

Turning a corner, a decoy slope appeared before him.

Kūsai glanced at it—corpses of ronin lay sprawled every which way across the slope.

He didn't dare linger, and kept walking forward. Long as this icy trench was, it had to end sometime.

"Almost there, almost there!" His voice trembled as he encouraged himself.

Sure enough, after another turn, he reached the end.

A cannon waited silently at the end of the tunnel, with more than twenty soldiers beside it.

The ronin who had run here with Kūsai collapsed instantly. Some sat down and wept, some turned and fled, and others erupted in fury, drawing their katanas and screaming defiance: "Come on then! Cowards!"

The cannon crew lit the fuse with expressionless faces.

Grapeshot blasted through the narrow trench, its killing efficiency at its peak. Every ronin, Kūsai included, became nourishment for the river of blood—not one survived.

Five hundred meters away, León watched the scene, his face full of disbelief.

Both the natives and the ronin were extremely brave and cruel peoples. In single combat they feared nothing—even with limbs severed they'd laugh and talk as if the blood weren't their own.

Yet facing the Shengli regular army, they lost catastrophically.

To be fair, only the first twenty minutes of the battle could truly be called a fight.

After that, it was a one-sided slaughter.

The ronin and natives almost completely abandoned resistance, dropping their weapons and exposing their backs to the enemy, no different from lambs offered up for slaughter. León snapped back to attention, ready to squeeze the last bit of value out of these mercenaries—buying time.

"Load the cannons onto the carts. We're returning to Manila!"

León commanded in a low voice.

Nearly all the grain on the entire island of Luzon was concentrated in the walled city.

The Cavite shipyard was surely lost, but as long as they held the walled city, they could outlast the enemy through attrition!

"Boom, boom, boom..."

The cannon fire out at sea was growing sparse. Ships could be dimly seen on fire, fleeing toward Manila under thick smoke.

He didn't have much time left to escape.

León urged the soldiers to get moving at once.

At the same time, on the deck of the Candle Dragon, Zheng Hongkui stood like a wooden post at the side rail, the Spanish fleet before his eyes.

Two and a half hours ago, this fleet had surged in with full menace—three large galleons, two medium galleons, two small galleons, and two caravels in total.

The Nan'ao navy had only seven ships. In terms of numbers, the Spanish had the advantage.

In terms of tonnage, it was plain to see that the Spanish warships were no match for the Nan'ao navy.

The two caravels were practically just padding out the numbers; their combat power could be ignored entirely.

The small galleons were even smaller than the Yahat ships.

The medium galleons were larger than the Yahat ships, at roughly seven hundred and fifty tons.

But even the Spaniards' large galleons fell short of the tonnage of the Candle Dragon and Tianyuan, and couldn't even match the captured Zheng He. Especially next to the Candle Dragon, the Spanish large galleons came up a full notch short.

In the artillery duel, both sides formed up in line, opening fire from two hundred and fifty paces out, then gradually closing to a hundred paces, then to fifty. From the moment the engagement began, the rumbling thunder of cannon fire on the sea never ceased, shaking men nearly deaf.

Gunsmoke shrouded the entire surface of the sea.

Seeing this scene, Zheng Hongkui trembled all over with excitement.

This was the warship broadside duel he had dreamed of — the ultimate romance of sea and fire!

A few cadet soldiers, seeing this sight, were so terrified they nearly wet their pants on the spot, their legs gone weak and boneless; had the bulwark not been there, they would have nearly tumbled into the sea. Zheng Hongkui, meanwhile, was flushed red as he shouted: "Boatswain, give me a gun!"

The boatswain cursed back: "I'll give you a gun up your grandmother's ass! If you've got that much energy, get down to the gun deck and carry the wounded!"

"Yes sir!" Zheng Hongkui, face brimming with excitement, hurried down to the gun deck.

Thanks to the openwork design of the weather deck, the upper gun deck caught scattered light and was still fairly bright.

The gunnery chief bellowed: "Load, load! You! What are you standing there gawking for — get over here and carry the wounded!"

Zheng Hongkui rushed forward at once.

He saw a soldier whose arm had been blown off by cannon fire — everything below the elbow was gone, the arm bone exposed, splinters of fractured bone jabbing into raw red flesh, blood gushing out in torrents.

The deck was covered in blood, so slick he could barely stand. Zheng Hongkui was walking too fast and went down headfirst with a heavy thud against the deck. His whole face was soaked in blood-water; fortunately he didn't break his nose, but a thick stench of blood shot straight up through his lungs to the crown of his skull. "Fire!"

"Boom boom boom!"

After the earth-shattering roar of the cannons, the gun deck was thick with gunsmoke.

The gunnery chief shot Zheng Hongkui a glance and roared: "What are you dawdling for? What good are you?"

Zheng Hongkui was in so much pain tears streamed down his face. He wiped his face, stepped forward, scooped up a wounded soldier in his arms, and headed down the ladder toward the hold.

Behind him came the gunnery chief's roar: "Damn it, spread sand over the blood! Cadet soldiers? Get the hell back up to the upper deck — don't make more trouble!"

Yahei

Pink Round

Pen