Chapter 271: The Thunder of Allah

Aboard the Acehnese flagship, the Wonder of the World.

The Sultan's ministers stood with mouths agape, faces full of bewilderment.

Aceh had fought the Portuguese in many naval battles, and they had seen enemies turn in a long snake-like line, but an entire battle line turning together like this... this was simply unheard of.

The Acehnese fleet had clearly formed an encirclement, yet Lin Qian had slipped away with ease through a single coordinated turn maneuver.

If he pulled off such maneuvers a few more times, the Acehnese fleet would never catch the enemy ships in a lifetime.

"Your Majesty, should we perhaps..."

A minister wanted to urge retreat, but the moment he saw the Sultan's expression, he fell silent.

The Sultan's lips bore a smile of complete control as he slowly swept his gaze across the assembled men and spoke: "The wind is growing weaker."

The men sat aboard the Wonder of the World, facing a relative headwind that made it impossible to feel the wind's strength, but looking at the sea, the wave crests had indeed lowered considerably. They all turned their gaze to the western sky and saw that the sun was already very close to the Barisan Mountains.

Dusk was approaching, the temperature was falling, and the sea-land breeze was weakening.

Lin Qian's fleet was about to fall into dire straits!

At this thought, the ministers relaxed once more.

Cannon fire thundered ceaselessly across the sea, gunsmoke drifting like clouds of mist toward the Wonder of the World.

Lin Qian's fleet had opened a gap of five hundred paces from the Acehnese fleet, then turned their bows around anew, formed a single line, presented their broadsides to the enemy, and began bombarding. A coordinated turn exposed the stern quarters, and relaying orders took time, so Lin Qian would turn whenever the Acehnese closed within two hundred paces.

As a result, the Acehnese fleet's losses from the bombardment were not great, and they could fully endure and continue their charge.

At that moment, a vast shadow swept swiftly across the battlefield.

The Sultan turned to look back — the sun had already sunk below the mountain ridges, and the sky shifted through brilliant blues, orange golds, rouge reds, and powdery purples in a dizzying array of colors. The mountains' shadows stretched at tremendous speed, and after just a few volleys of cannon fire, they had covered the entire strait, the world sinking into gauze-like darkness. The Acehnese fleet lit their ship lamps one after another, and across the whole sea, warm yellow points of light flickered to life, like stars falling upon the water.

The wind was even weaker now, and even the Arab lateen sails had gone slack; the Acehnese fleet was almost entirely reliant on oars for maneuver.

A cheer erupted aboard the Wonder of the World — the weaker the wind, the more advantageous it was for them.

"Look, the enemy fleet is turning!"

The lookout on the Wonder of the World shouted, using the last refracted light from the mountaintops.

The Sultan's gaze leapt over the charging host and saw Lin Qian's fleet executing another coordinated turn.

But this time, the fleet's turning speed was noticeably much slower.

A sailing ship's rudder response depended on its speed through the water; difficulty turning meant their speed had dropped, showing they were already affected by the weakening wind. The Sultan's smile grew even wider.

The ministers all raised their voices in praise.

"Your Majesty, the Tang men's fleet can't move anymore, hahaha..."

"Your Majesty, we're sure to win!"

"This is Allah's punishment upon the infidels! Long live Allah!"

Listening to his ministers' flattery, the Sultan gave a leisurely order: "Have the Laksamana charge at full speed!"

The signalmen pounded the war drums with all their might, the drumbeats growing ever more urgent. The surrounding ships heard the rhythm and relayed the order in turn, and for a time, dense drumbeats rose and fell across the sea.

Aboard the Laksamana's flagship, the Crocodile, the first mate heard the order and shouted down into the hold: "Full speed charge!"

In the hold, the slave master raised his short whip, cracked it against the hull, and bellowed: "Full speed charge! Put all your strength into it!"

The galley slaves had fought for a long time and were utterly exhausted, but under the sting of the whip, they dared not slow their pace.

"Push! Pull! Push! Pull..." The slave master personally led the rowing rhythm, his chants growing faster and faster.

Whoever was slow got a lash the moment they faltered.

Under the crushing pressure, the slaves unleashed their bodies' latent potential — veins bulging across their bodies, muscles hard as stone, rowing with desperate fury.

Seen from above, the Acehnese fleet's speed suddenly surged, like a great net fully spread, swiftly closing in on Lin Qian's fleet.

The night was cloudless; a new crescent moon rose from the eastern sea, and the sky blazed with countless stars.

The wind over the sea grew weaker and weaker, the waves gradually calming, reflecting the Milky Way's stars above — the two fleets seemed to be battling amid a sea of stars.

"We've caught them, we've caught them!" Someone aboard the Wonder of the World shouted in triumph.

The Sultan breathed a sigh of relief. Oared ships, being propelled by human muscle, could accelerate suddenly, but their maximum speed could not be sustained for long — the order for full speed had to be saved for the critical moment.

Judging by the current results, his gamble had paid off!

Just then, a sudden change occurred!

Lin Qian's fleet suddenly unfurled several new sails, their surface area nearly doubling.

The horizontal breadth of the sails was almost twice the width of the hulls, while the vertical extent was even more extravagant — nearly four to five times the height of the masts.

The entire fleet spread its wings like swans unfurling with grace, their speed slowly rising, making it impossible for the charging Acehnese fleet at full speed to close the distance. Every cheer, every celebration froze in their throats in an instant. The silence aboard the Wonder of the World was terrifying; everyone waited for the outcome.

The Acehnese vanguard ships closed to within a hundred paces and switched to chain shot, hammering away — but unfortunately their ammunition throw-weight was insufficient, and most shots went wide, splashing into the water.

A few chain shots struck the stern quarter of the Zhangzhou, severing a good number of the mizzen rigging lines.

The drawback of the Acehnese fleet's chaotic charge now became apparent — the light galleys had surged to the front, yet they carried no stern guns.

And the heavy galleasses had cannons, but their lanes and fields of fire were completely blocked.

After about ten minutes, the wing sails and skysails of the Nan'ao fleet bellied out fully, and their speed gradually increased.

Meanwhile, the Acehnese rowing slaves' strength had reached its limit; no matter how fiercely the whips lashed, they could not go a hair faster.

At their closest, the two fleets were less than fifty paces apart, yet they could no longer close the gap — instead, it was stretched inch by inch, foot by foot.

The silence aboard the Wonder of the World was deafening. Everyone stood frozen like wooden statues; no one dared look at the Sultan's expression.

Aboard the Warrior, Rellson had not yet recovered from the shock of the two coordinated turns when he saw the wing sails and skysails go up — he felt as though he had been struck by lightning.

In this era, even the jib sail was still a novelty, and Lin Qian had already produced sails like wings?

Was Lin Qian simply too formidable, or was the Ming Empire's seamanship too formidable?

The Easterners possessed such absurd technology, yet they still plied their trade in slow-moving Fujian junks, and watched with their own eyes as the Spanish slaughtered tens of thousands of their people without lifting a finger?

For a moment, Rellson felt his entire worldview overturned; he even forgot to give the next order, deaf to the first mate's inquiries. Aboard the Candle Dragon, Lin Qian wore a calm expression, but inwardly he let out a long sigh of relief.

The Acehnese had picked their moment too well — they had nearly been caught.

"How's the wind?" Lin Qian asked.

"Southeast wind, force 3, speed 7 knots," the helmsman replied.

There was no way to measure speed at the moment, but judging by eye, the Candle Dragon was making about 5 knots—far slower than a galley's full-speed charge, but faster than its average cruising speed.

The lookout shouted, "Enemy fleet, five hundred paces!"

Lin Qian turned to look back—the vast sea was covered in points of starlight.

"Straighten the hull."

The helmsman bellowed, "Hard aport, straighten the hull!"

"Hard aport!"

"Midships!"

"Rudder amidships!"

As helmsman and quartermaster worked in tandem, the Candle Dragon's bow swung back toward the northwest. Ship after ship along the entire battle line followed suit, bow to stern, reconnecting into a single line. Cannon fire erupted once more, and in an instant the fleet was shrouded in gunsmoke.

At the ship's rail, Qin Liangyu stared blankly into space. This kind of tactics was like mounted archery at sea—the ship was the horse, the cannon the bow—which made the water buffalo horn greatbow in her hands utterly useless.

Nearly four hours had passed since the fighting began. Apart from the coordinated turns, the cannon had barely stopped firing. All three of them were soaked through with gunsmoke, their skin coated in sticky gunpowder residue, their noses so irritated by sulfur that they could scarcely smell anything at all.

Yet the sailors aboard the Candle Dragon showed not the slightest sign of fatigue—everyone worked methodically, moving in perfect coordination.

Even Qin Liangyu, who had seen more than her share of elite troops, could not help but feel a secret awe.

"The wind's picking up!" a sailor suddenly shouted.

Zhang Fengyi looked around in bewilderment. She found it utterly baffling—was there the slightest change in the wind on deck?

A moment later, the measurer called out, "Wind force 3, speed 9 knots, direction southeast."

After a little while longer, the wind gradually increased to 10 knots.

This was the sea-breeze/land-breeze shift after nightfall bringing stronger winds. They were at roughly 5° north latitude, on the edge of the doldrums, where the effect was limited—during the sea-breeze transition, it was rare for the wind to die completely.

Lin Qian estimated the rate at which the wind was rising and ordered, "Furl the auxiliary sails."

The helmsman passed the order. By the time the sail-handlers had the canvas furled, the wind had just reached force 4. The battle line sailed on smoothly, unaffected in the slightest.

Then, under the despairing gaze of the Acehnese, the Nan'ao navy executed another coordinated turn.

Lin Qian's tactics were extremely cautious—he turned at two hundred paces' distance, never greedy for a kill.

The Acehnese fleet, having made one full-speed charge, had its galley slaves fighting continuously for over four hours. Their strength had reached its limit, exhaustion plain to see, and the ships' speed plummeted—they could now rely mainly on their Arab lateen sails.

Aboard the Wonder of the World, one minister could no longer bear it and urged, "Your Majesty, the wind is growing stronger. Let us withdraw."

"Your Majesty, our main force is still intact. If we withdraw now, it is not too late."

Sultan Mudah clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ground together, his eyes seeming to spit fire. He would not yield an inch.

Seeing this, another minister threw caution to the wind, kneeling on the deck and crying, "Your Majesty! While the oarsmen still have strength left, order the fleet to pull back! Relying on the coastal waters and the darkness, we can still escape!"

The Sultan's gaze shot over coldly, and he ordered his guards, "Lock him up!"

"Yes!" The guards dragged the minister away into the hold.

After that, the other ministers dared not remonstrate further. They could only watch the battlefield in despair as the Nan'ao fleet completed yet another coordinated turn. Red flashes flickered endlessly from the broadside gunports, followed by thunderous cannon fire.

The wind was now rising steadily, quickly blowing away the gunsmoke over the sea until the entire battlefield was much clearer.

Under the brilliant starlight, one could see the Acehnese fleet being pounded by a full broadside, wooden splinters flying everywhere. Three galleys that had charged at the front gradually slowed to a stop, then took on water at the bows, their stern lanterns tilting high into the air before they sank slowly beneath the waves like falling stars.

Everyone knew it—the Acehnese fleet was doomed beyond all doubt.

Many ministers looked at their Sultan the way one might look at a gambler who had lost everything and gone mad with desperation.

Just then, a strong gust swept in, ruffling the sea and kicking up white-foamed waves. Even the Wonder of the World rolled hard to one side. "The wind is strengthening again..." someone cried out in despair.

"No! This wind is wrong!" One minister's face turned terrified. He ran quickly up to the deck and scanned the sky in every direction. Suddenly, he saw something horrifying. His face went deathly pale in an instant, his steps faltered, and he collapsed onto the deck with a thud, lips trembling, finger pointing at the southwestern sky, unable to speak for a long moment. The others also sensed something amiss. Forgetting all propriety, they poured out of the cabins—and the moment they all looked up, they froze.

Someone stammered, "Your... Your Majesty... th... that... that..."

Sultan Mudah walked slowly out of the cabin and looked toward the southwestern sky. One glance was enough to freeze him in place. Every hair on his body stood on end as a fear born from the depths of his heart swept through him.

There, in the southwestern sky, a wall of dark clouds was bearing down—clouds stretching thousands of li, so thick their edges could not be seen, blotting out half the heavens entirely. A bizarre spectacle appeared in the firmament: half the sky utterly cloudless, half buried beneath black clouds.

That mass of clouds hung extremely low, almost solid in substance, surging forward like a tsunami, drowning heaven and earth in its path.

Within moments, the wind at sea strengthened further. Wave crests surged up, the water churning out great quantities of snow-white foam, and the howling gale carried a heavy burden of moisture. No matter how heroic a figure one might be, beholding such a grand work of nature would make one's legs go weak, one's head spin, and one's heart pound.

Without waiting for the Sultan's order, the sailors had already reacted, screaming at the tops of their lungs to pass the word.

"A storm is coming! Furl the sails, quick!"

"Furl the sails! Furl the sails!"

The Acehnese had lived on the island of Sumatra for generations and knew the storms of these waters intimately.

Such storms came with terrifying speed and no warning at all—in the time it took to drink a cup of tea, the sea could go from smooth as a mirror to roaring chaos. No sail, no mast, could survive a storm of this intensity. Even being slow to furl by a moment meant the destruction of the ship and the death of all aboard. Sultan Mudah stared fixedly at the sky. That wall of clouds seemed to move slowly, but in truth it was extremely fast—in the blink of an eye it had swallowed the land, and it was still rolling swiftly toward the sea.

Several transport ships had already been engulfed by the clouds, vanishing utterly into darkness in an instant.

"Your Majesty, call off the attack! Furl the sails and drop anchor!" a minister shouted into the gale, his voice nearly a plea.

"Hahahahaha..." Sultan Mudah turned around and burst into a string of wild laughter.

The ministers all froze, staring at one another in bewilderment.

The Sultan pointed at the heavens, his long robe whipped and snapping loudly in the gale.

"This is a weapon granted to us by Allah! The gale will help us crush the army of the infidels! Now, warriors of Allah, let us bend to the oars and launch the final charge against the enemy! Long live almighty Allah!"

There was not a trace of fear on the Sultan's face—only savagery and fanaticism.

Infected by his fervor, the ministers briefly cast aside their terror and joined the Sultan in wildly praising Allah.

Aboard the Wonder of the World, the war drums beat faster once more. This time, the Sultan took the helm of his flagship and personally led the charge against the battle line.

Aboard the Warrior, Lars watched the portents of heaven and earth and Mudah's behavior, his eyes bulging so wide they seemed about to pop from their sockets.

"Madman! Madman! A madman who belongs in hell! God! Two madmen! You both truly belong in hell!"

Lars cursed freely into the gale, venting the fury burning in his heart.

The first mate shouted with all his strength: "Lower the sails! Lower the sails! God! Lower the sails quickly, do you not want to live? Faster!" The sail-handlers said not a word, climbing the masts with every ounce of strength they had.

The storm clouds had not yet arrived, but the sea wind had grown much stronger. Seawater and rain were whipped up by the gale and slammed sideways into them, making it impossible to keep their eyes open. The deck and masts were soaked in an instant.

The shrouds were whipped about wildly. Sail-handlers who normally walked the masts as if on flat ground now climbed as if treading on thin ice.

In a sudden storm like this, the overly complex rigging of the galleon showed its full disadvantage.

The Dutch simply did not have enough time to lower their sails. Even if they managed to get them down by luck, there was not enough time to turn the bow to reduce the windward area. "Ah—" In the gale, a sail-handler's foot slipped, and he fell straight down. The wind blew his body several meters off course. He plunged into the sea. Among wave crests several meters high and white foam, the sail-handler swam desperately—then a wave crashed over him, and the whole man vanished without even a single cry of agony.

"It's a phantom storm!" On the gun deck, the Dutch gunners pulled out crucifixes and knelt to pray.

On their route through the Sunda Strait between Europe and back, the Dutch passed the west coast of Sumatra, and occasionally encountered such storms. Because they came and went without any warning, the sailors called them phantom storms.

All one could do against such a storm was lower the sails, drop anchor, and turn the bow—beyond that, all that remained was to kneel and pray.

And yet here were madmen who, beyond resisting and praying, had made a third choice: to fight within the storm. And there were two such madmen. In the distance, Lin Qian's fleet was also shifting formation amid the storm.

Between the two madmen's hands, they held nearly thirty thousand soldiers!

With so many people going mad together, Ryersen felt the whole world had become unreal.

Aboard the Candle Dragon.

The wind pennant was stretched into a perfectly straight line. The measurer shouted: "Southwest wind, force 7, thirty knots!"

Such wind already counted as severe sea conditions. A sailing warship had to reef its sails substantially, or it risked capsizing.

"Lower the sails!" the helmsman shouted. Considering the storm had not truly struck yet and the wind was still rising, he simply had all sails furled. However strong the Candle Dragon was, she was still a sailing warship, no different in essence from the Dutchman's Valiant. And because her rigging was more complex and her masts taller, furling her sails was actually more troublesome.

In the gale, Lin Qian narrowed his eyes and saw the Acehnese fleet charging in like madmen. He ordered: "Keep the bow spritsail and the mizzenmast fore-and-aft sail!" Lin Qian knew that this kind of storm was a Sumatra squall—it came fast and left fast. If he gave up maneuverability and passively sheltered from the wind, once the storm passed, the fleet would be doomed beyond recovery.

The bow spritsail and mizzen fore-and-aft sail were the keys to turning and maintaining rudder effect. Even in a gale, they could give the ship sufficient power. Moreover, both sails were made of sturdy material and would not easily tear, so they could briefly serve as storm sails.

"Aye!" the helmsman shouted the order down the line.

"Three hundred paces!" the lookout called.

The shift in wind direction put the Acehnese to windward. Their fleet bore down with the wind, moving at tremendous speed.

And that bank of storm clouds, like ten thousand horses charging, followed right behind the Acehnese fleet—a sight to make one's hair stand on end.

Lin Qian stared at the black clouds, deep in thought. The storm would arrive soon. Under a southwest wind, the port side of the battle line would take the wind, and the hulls would roll violently. Never mind firing broadsides—just keeping the ships from capsizing would be a feat.

And to turn and flee, presenting the stern to the enemy, would not only expose them to the Acehnese bow guns—the structure of a sailing warship was not designed to take waves on the stern. Forcing the stern into the swells would, at best, cause a loss of control; at worst, the stern would rise high, the bow plunge straight into the sea, and ship and crew would be destroyed together.

At this moment, there was only one path.

Fortunately, Lin Qian still had one last card to play.

Lin Qian said in a low voice: "Hard aport, bow into the wind—we charge in!"

"Helmsman!" Even Bailangzai was shocked and hurried to advise against it.

"Hard aport, bow into the waves, charge! Switch to grapeshot, both sides fire at will!" Lin Qian shouted.

Bailangzai was stunned for a moment, then shouted: "Aye! Hard aport!"

"Hard aport!" The helmsman spun the wheel fully and bellowed.

The Candle Dragon turned at full speed, charging straight toward the enemy's approach. Behind her, the ships of the battle line followed in her wake, turning as one.

Seen from the sky, the Nan'ao battle line was like a spear thrusting into the raging storm.

"Wind... southwest... force 8... speed..." The storm compounded by the relative wind made the measurer's voice fragmentary, impossible to make out clearly. "One hundred paces!" the lookout shouted.

"Fifty paces!"

Lin Qian shouted: "Everyone, tie your safety lines tight!"

"Tie the safety lines!"

The helmsman, the boatswain, and every crewman who heard the order repeated it at the top of their lungs.

"Ten paces!"

A galley lay directly in the Candle Dragon's path.

"Prepare to ram!" the boatswain shouted.

Then came a tremendous crash of splintering wood from the Candle Dragon's bow. Along her forward course, the oars on the galley's port side were all snapped off. The Candle Dragon's hull was tall, and her construction far sturdier than a galley's.

At the last critical moment, the galley still dared not take the collision head-on and chose to turn right to dodge.

Then the Candle Dragon plunged headlong into the midst of the Acehnese fleet—and the storm clouds swallowed both fleets completely.

The sea went dark in an instant, almost nothing visible. The rain was blown into a fine mist by the gale, stinging painfully against their faces.

The Candle Dragon fired ceaselessly from both sides. The red flash of her muzzles tore through the darkness as countless grapeshot sprayed out across the sea.

In the darkness nothing could be seen. The gunners could only aim by the muzzle flashes of their comrades.

Behind the Candle Dragon, the four yachts from Zhangzhou, Chaozhou, Quanzhou, and Huilai drew near as well, firing canister shot without pause from both sides, literally tearing a hole in the Acehnese fleet.

The cannon fire grew ever denser, almost deafening, drowning out the waves, the wind, and the rain.

Qin Liangyu had a safety line tied around her waist. Her bowstring was soaked through. With a resolute expression, she drew the bow and nocked an arrow. Seizing the moment a muzzle flash lit up, she released—the arrow shot forth, but halfway through its flight, the gale blew it down into the sea, not even raising a single splash.

Such was the terror of nature's might.

Qin Liangyu felt a moment of daze. Before such power of heaven and earth, human strength was truly too insignificant.

The wind grew stronger still. Waves now reached two or three zhang high. Even the Candle Dragon pitched and rolled violently in such seas. The Candle Dragon crested one wave, then her bow plunged hard into the trough. A massive wave crashed straight onto the deck, sending even her most seasoned sailors staggering. Had they not been tied to their safety lines, who knows how many would have been swept into the sea.

The entire battle line had become crooked and ragged, and the broadsides frequently fell silent.

The Acehnese fared no better. In such giant waves, forget boarding—just keeping their ships steady was a pipe dream.

Neither fleet now had any means to destroy the other, yet neither would admit defeat. The cannon fire continued unabated.

Just then, an extremely powerful flash of lightning illuminated the entire battlefield.

Then came the rumbling thunder.

By the electric light, the sea could be seen churning violently, the ships upon it colliding and breaking apart.

And the Nan'ao naval battle line, under the gale's force, slowed more and more until it nearly stopped entirely, caught in the Acehnese's heavy encirclement. The world plunged into darkness.

In an instant, another flash of lightning blazed, followed by a rumble of thunder that resounded across the entire strait.

Even the roar of the cannons paled before the thunder.

By the lightning's flash, Sultan Muda saw the Candle Dragon not far ahead. His expression grew ever more fervent as he pressed his hands together, palms skyward, and began to pray on the spot.

In Islamic culture, thunder is both praise to Allah and a weapon Allah uses to smite His enemies.

Muda's robe, soaked through by the torrential rain and torn by the gale, revealed a body of well-honed muscle.

He stood unshaken in the storm, chanting verses from the Quran: "... He hurls the thunderbolt to strike whom He wills!"

A bolt of lightning came—this time closer, striking the distant shore directly. The thick bolt was like a twisted giant serpent that flashed across the sky, then vanished in an instant.

Boom! The thunderclap echoed between heaven and earth.

Fire flared on the shore, then was quickly extinguished by the downpour.

All the world knew that lightning strikes the tallest things—so on the vast open sea, what was the tallest thing of all?

The towering masts of the infidels' warships!

Amid the wind and rain, the Sultan's chanting grew louder, and his ministers and warriors, moved by his call, joined in the recitation.

Allah seemed truly to have felt the devotion of the faithful, for the ceaseless thunder began to draw ever closer to the sea.

Gazing at the heavens, one saw lightning flare again and again within the leaden clouds—the whole world flickered between light and dark.

The rumbling thunder grew ever more terrifying; even the boldest of men could not help but feel fear rise in their hearts.

Even the Acehnese ministers aboard the Wonder of the World could no longer remain composed, lifting their heads to gaze at the clouds.

Boom!

An extraordinarily thick bolt of lightning struck down without the slightest warning, and every Acehnese man in the fleet saw white spots dance before his eyes.

The bolt struck dead center on the mainmast of the Dutch Silver Serpent. In that instant of electric light, the mainmast burst apart as if detonated by gunpowder—wood splinters flew in every direction—then half the mainmast snapped and toppled, dragging down dozens of shrouds and running rigging in its fall.

The Dutchmen screamed in agony as fire erupted across the deck.

Sultan Muda paid no heed to his ally's plight; his eyes were fixed unwaveringly on the Candle Dragon.

As if possessed, he muttered without cease: "Strike! Strike now!"

Yahei

Pink Round

Pen