Chapter 622: Punishing the Rebels (Part 2)

Unlike the brutal, grinding siege warfare everyone had imagined, the true first battle of this Northern Vietnam campaign—the one that really mattered—did not begin on land, but at sea.

On the third morning after the Ming Military Observation Group arrived at the Zheng River, the sky was overcast and gloomy, with a damp wind but no rain; visibility was poor.

The first to take the field in this naval battle, brazenly provoking despite the foul weather, was the Northern Yue United Fleet.

The Joint Fleet was built around two Dutch armed merchantmen, the Qiwei and the Kendebuke, supported by over a hundred local sea craft—most of them pirate bands hired on a temporary basis, and among those, Ming Nation Pirate crews were the majority.

The South Yue side was no less aggressive. The core of its fleet was four Spanish sailing ships, likewise tailed by a large number of contracted pirates.

And so, in the dim, sultry early-morning air, beneath the gaze of countless eyes on shore, the naval battle erupted just beyond the mouth of the Zhengjiang Estuary.

Although the total number of vessels committed by both North and South this time surpassed any previous engagement, one point must be noted: every single warship on either side, without exception, was a mercenary.

And since they were mercenaries, the eternal question was how to fulfill the contract while preserving one's own strength.

So on the whole, the scale of this sea battle was decent, but its intensity was lacking.

From the moment the two fleets made contact, they maintained engagement with a constant thunder of cannons and furious battle cries, but it was all spectacle.

Tactically, the ships on both sides mostly relied on cannonades and probing attacks; the truly life-costing scenarios—Chinese-style boarding actions and Western-style close-range broadside duels—never materialized.

In a sense, this battle at the Zhengjiang Estuary actually overturned people's perception of pirates as undisciplined and chaotic—maintaining a combat scene that was at once courteous and awkwardly restrained requires an extremely high level of tactical sophistication.

The crucial turning point of the battle came at noon.

At that moment, the Northern fleet's two Dutch ships, likely judging that a prolonged fight would be to their disadvantage, fired off signal flags and fireworks, intending for the entire force to disengage and fight another day.

Unexpectedly, this disengagement went wrong.

It was the end of the month, and the wind along the Vietnamese coast blew from the north most of the time. In the earlier fighting, the Northern ships had actually held the advantage of the wind, but both sides' shadowboxing had squandered it.

The tragic part was, now that the Northern ships wanted to turn, the wind was against them, so their turning radius had to be enormous.

Even more dangerously, the Dutch maneuver was a turn in the face of the enemy. The Spanish were no fools; the moment they detected the Dutchmen's intent, they sent up signals ordering the main force to press forward and attack.

Who doesn't enjoy kicking someone when they're down? A large number of Southern ships immediately abandoned their earlier evasive attitude and closed in aggressively.

The Northern fleet, led by the Dutch ships, now found itself in a dilemma. If they continued the turn, their flanks would be savaged; if they didn't, hadn't they already decided to disengage?

Next, facing the enemy ships bearing down on them, the Dutch, in their haste, seemed to make a mistake: they only turned halfway, then fought a retreating action using their side cannons.

As a result, the Dutch armed merchantmen ended up heading east, toward the Pacific Ocean, pulling farther and farther away from land.

Seeing their two core Red Hair great ships blunder off toward the open sea, the various Northern pirate bands, which had been fairly orderly until now, instantly reverted to form and began looking out for themselves. Some followed the Dutch toward the Pacific; others struggled to turn back toward Northern Vietnamese ports. A few ferocious captains, hoping to use this chance to make their name, held their ground and, with the wind at their backs, prepared to intercept their Southern counterparts.

For a moment, the sea surface dissolved into utter chaos.

The Southern Joint Fleet was overjoyed to see the Northerners scattering in pandemonium. The flagship, the Spanish Galleon Pontebedra, immediately fired off a rapid succession of flags and rockets, ordering its own core vessels to pursue the Dutch closely and the pirate bands to chase down their counterparts on the spot.

Before long, the chaos resolved into clarity. The great melee outside the Zhengjiang Estuary gradually split into two streams: an eastward column of ships flying white sails, and a large mass of local craft tangled together, slowly drifting north.

At this sight, the countless onlookers on shore erupted in a clamor; roars resounded from both banks of the Zheng River, North and South alike. Only, in this moment, the Southerners' shouts were full of defiance and power, while the Northerners' were pure frustration and jeering—much like the scene in later generations when the national football team gets scored on yet again by some no-name country.

Yet the affairs of the world are unpredictable. The onlookers might be dejected, but the high command, who held far more information, did not necessarily see it that way.

It was still that same stone hill where the Observation Group had pitched camp. The scene today was even grander; at the foot of the hill were not only the one hundred men of the Ming guard company, but also over a thousand Northern Yue Imperial Guards, clad in armor and exuding a fierce, battle-hardened aura.

Where the Imperial Guard went, the king and the powerful chancellor were sure to follow.

Atop the stone hill, the Northern Yue Qingdu King, Zheng Zhuang, over sixty years old and dressed in a brocade robe, sat in a rattan chair, chatting with a face full of smiles with the Observation Group's Delegation Leader, Sheng Nan.

With Northern Vietnam throwing its entire nation into this southward punitive campaign, Zheng Zhuang, the Qingdu King and the core of the Zheng Clan, naturally had to lead the army in person.

After all, though it appeared that the Later Le Dynasty of Northern Vietnam was staking its national fate, in truth it was the Zheng Clan that had wagered everything; Zheng Zhuang simply could not sit in Shenglong Prefecture and wait for news.

And since Zheng Zhuang was on the move, the current Puppet Ruler of the Later Le Dynasty was also certain to accompany the army south. This living Cao Cao, Zheng Zhuang, kept one eye on the ruler even in his dreams—how could he allow the man to slip out of his sight?

So this campaign was, in a sense, the monarch personally leading the troops. Only, for propaganda purposes, the puppet ruler himself was naturally ignored; the army's main propaganda focus was the awe-inspiring might of Prince Zheng leading the troops south.

"General Sheng, does this arrangement meet with your approval?"

Watching the white sails gradually vanish from sight, Prince Zheng set down the thousand-li lens in his hand and asked Sheng Nan in a standard, southern-accented Han speech.

In that moment, Sheng Nan felt, from the bottom of his heart, the air of an Old World colonizer in his colony. Atop the stone hill, only he and Prince Zheng sat side by side; behind them, a crowd of Later Le civil and military officials stood in attendance—a most gratifying scene.

"Your Highness, please rest assured. The pirate ships have already taken the bait and given chase; they are not far from the trap."

After reassuring Prince Zheng, Sheng Nan turned his head and ordered the signalman beside him: "Send a telegram. Ask the fleet's current position and estimated time of enemy contact."

"Yes, sir!"

At the exact same moment Sheng Nan was inquiring about the fleet's position, another man was also anxiously asking for its precise location.

This man had red hair and blue eyes, wore a tricorne hat, a white shirt, and a woolen double-breasted short coat—he was none other than Van der Pol, captain of the Dutch flagship Qiwei.

At this moment, Mr. Van der Pol's body rose and fell with the pitching ship, his hair disheveled and his eyes bloodshot, as he clung to the railing of the quarterdeck, craning his neck and peering desperately into the distance.

Barely one nautical mile behind the Qiwei, four Spanish sailing ships, every sail stretched taut, were in hot pursuit. White smoke puffed up incessantly, followed moments later by the rumble of cannon fire.

Seeing the splashes of cannonballs slamming into the wake ever closer, Mr. Van der Pol could no longer contain himself. He fixed his baleful glare once more on a short, yellow-skinned young man beside him: "Captain Mao Wujian, where are the reinforcements you promised? I must remind you, if the Qiwei is sunk, you won't escape meeting your God either!"

The short young man, standing ramrod straight in military posture even on the pitching deck and wearing a dazzling white naval officer's uniform, was utterly unmoved by the Dutch captain's harsh words.

After a barely perceptible flicker of contempt passed through his eyes, the short young man replied in a flat, mechanical Dutch: "The Great Yan Navy bestrides the seven seas. We will not break faith with our Dutch friends. Mr. Van der Pol, please be at ease."

"That line again!" Van der Pol's face flushed crimson. Pointing at the signalman carrying a walkie-talkie on his back, he roared: "What you need now is not pretty words, but to use that damned contraption to contact the reinforcements at least one more time—if that damned iron box even has the capability!"

The young naval captain named Mao Wujian did not even bother to explain this time. After a simple reply of "No tactical necessity," he shut his mouth and said no more.

And the Dutch captain, Mr. Van der Pol, faced with this utterly impervious "Liaison Officer," was ultimately helpless. He could only turn away in a huff and cast his gaze back toward the stern.

Just then, the walkie-talkie on the signalman's back suddenly crackled to life. In the next moment, through the pristine electromagnetic environment of the seventeenth century, a clear male voice issued a command: "Attention, our unit has completed its flanking maneuver and is in position. You are ordered to maintain current heading. Repeat, maintain current heading!"

Hearing the command from the walkie-talkie, Mao Wujian snatched up the handset and replied: "Understood, understood. Maintaining current heading."

Mr. Van der Pol, the instant he heard the walkie-talkie, transformed into a Shadow Dancer, flashing to Mao Wujian's side in a single step with an afterimage, grabbing his shoulders, shaking him violently, and shouting: "What did it say? Tell me quickly, what did the magic treasure say?!"

At that same moment, Sheng Nan's unit atop the stone hill also received the telegram. In the next instant, Sheng Nan smiled and said to the white-bearded Zheng Zhuang: "Your Highness, the ambushing force has entered the field. The pirate ships have no escape!"

"Excellent!"

From any angle, eliminating the main battleships of the South Sea Fleet was a matter of immense significance. Zheng Zhuang, Prince Zheng, who bore tremendous pressure, was visibly overjoyed at the news. He slapped his thigh—a rare gesture—and laughed heartily: "This victory is entirely thanks to Sir Sheng's masterful planning from the command tent!"

As a product of the twenty-first century's conventional assembly line, Sheng Nan was no stranger to mutual commercial flattery: "Your Highness only arrived yesterday, yet gave the order for the entire fleet to sail as bait today. That kind of resolve and responsibility—now that is truly remarkable!"

Prince Zheng, his vanity thoroughly tickled, burst into laughter again: "Hahaha! It was only after hearing Sir Sheng's counsel that this king understood the brilliance of deploying troops in secret!"

As the saying goes, the joy of some is the sorrow of others. If the people on shore and the bait were happy, then the previously arrogant and domineering Southern Yue Fleet was naturally about to have a very bad day.

Just as certain people were busy with mutual commercial flattery, on the Spanish ship already far from the coast, the lookout perched high atop the mast finally sensed something was wrong, pointed in one direction, and struck the emergency bell.

The next moment, on the cloud-darkened horizon, a strange white line charged out from afar. Looking closely, it was four high-speed warships, bow to stern in a line.

These four streamlined high-speed warships came from the north, every sail filled with wind, and belching thick black smoke besides, sweeping around to the rear of the four Spanish ships like arrows leaving the bowstring.