Chapter 34

"Chuanzong, you only have a blade. Don't show yourself before we grapple — don't rush to the front."

"Understood."

The two port-side cannons on the opposing red-seal ship each fired twice, all missing. Wang Zugui also fired two shots from the starboard red-barbarian cannon, likewise missing. After reloading, neither side fired again. Iron cannons of this era could not sustain continuous fire; although reloading speed was not slow, after three consecutive shots they had to cool down, so they would not exceed eight to ten rounds per hour. Both sides held their last shot, waiting to use it at closer range.

On the Fujian junk, over a dozen sailors gripped long spears and grappling hooks, flying claws laid at their feet, arrayed in tight formation along the starboard side. Another seven or eight sailors held bird guns. The remaining sailors mostly wielded short weapons — Japanese swords, waist sabers, short-handled axes, steel forks, and the like — scattered across various points on the deck. Both sailing ships had countless rigging lines running crisscross; while long spears could be used in the moment just before grappling, once boarding began, long weapons became unsuitable.

After giving Lu Lvzi his instructions, Chen Xin waited a moment. Hearing no movement, he poked his head out from behind the bulwark to look. The red-seal ship was already fifty paces away (one Ming pace equaling five chi, roughly 156 centimeters). Suddenly, with a thunderous boom, a black iron ball burst from white smoke and hurtled rapidly toward him.

Chen Xin's whole body went numb. Before he could even react, he heard a bang. The bulwark about five meters to Chen Xin's right suddenly exploded. The iron ball, carrying countless shattered bamboo splinters, swept across that section of deck. A long-spearman standing right behind the bulwark was struck directly by the iron ball. With a muffled thud, the spearman instantly transformed into countless pieces of shattered limbs, scattering in all directions. A mist of blood sprayed across the surrounding deck. The iron ball's remaining force still unspent, it smashed through the port bulwark and plunged into the sea.

A moment later, several wounded sailors began to scream in agony. They were studded all over with bamboo splinters. One of them had been drenched in the blood mist of that unlucky spearman, then immediately struck by over a dozen fragments large and small, blood streaming from him as if he had been fished out of a pool of gore. He collapsed on the deck, howling in prolonged agony, the searing pain curling his body into a ball as he convulsed violently.

Chen Xin stared blankly at a severed arm with part of a shoulder lying before his eyes. His stomach spasmed repeatedly. This piece of flesh had struck the port side, then been bounced back by the bamboo to land right in front of him. At the shoulder's torn end, strands of reddish muscle still clung, blood slowly oozing out.

"Ahhh!!!" "Ahhh!!!"

The inhuman sounds finally began to rouse Chen Xin from his numb state. With effort, he tore his gaze away from the severed limb before him and looked at the several wounded men writhing on the deck, not knowing what he should do. His mind's reactions were far from reaching their usual level.

A flash of gleaming blade sliced through the air, and the badly wounded man's screams abruptly ceased. Proprietor Zhao, using his left hand, casually tossed the severed head aside, then raised his blade and walked toward another howling wounded man. That man had a splinter lodged in his left eye, his face covered in blood. Seeing Proprietor Zhao approach, he frantically waved his hand, then grabbed his clothes and stuffed them between his teeth to bite down. Proprietor Zhao observed this and said flatly, "One more sound, and I'll take your life."

The wounded man nodded, biting down desperately on the cloth, and made no further sound. Another man, lightly wounded, saw this and hurriedly shut his mouth as well. Proprietor Zhao's expression remained as calm as ever. He kicked aside a severed thigh on the deck and walked to the shattered starboard bulwark. The two ships were now only forty paces apart. An opposing gunner (a Japanese matchlockman) fired a shot at Proprietor Zhao. It struck the hull and was easily stopped by the two-and-a-half-inch-thick hull planks. Firing a smoothbore gun from a moving ship at a moving target offered no possibility of accuracy whatsoever.

Proprietor Zhao, utterly unmoved, turned and bellowed at the sailors, "Kill these sons of whores — we're making a fortune!"

"Kill!!!"

"Boom!" "Boom!" "Bang! Bang!"

One red-barbarian cannon and two Frankish breechloaders on the Fujian junk's starboard side fired simultaneously. Seven or eight bird-gunners also opened fire. The opposing red-seal ship was hit repeatedly, screams rising from it in waves. It had already expended its cannon fire and could not shoot again for the moment, falling into a helpless state. The Fujian junk's red-barbarian cannon barrel was scalding hot and also could not fire again.

Wang Zugui and his men used the Frankish guns to fire rapidly. The three-man gun crews coordinated with practiced skill. After firing one shot, one man pulled the iron wedge, another lifted out the spent sub-chamber, and a third inserted a fresh sub-chamber, whereupon the first man reinserted the iron wedge — far faster even than the bird-gunners. Although the large Frankish gun's shot weighed less than a catty, its power at close range was not to be underestimated. It tore into the red-seal ship's port side, sending splinters flying in all directions, quickly reducing it to a wreck with bulwarks shattered and incomplete.

By the time the Frankish guns had exhausted all their sub-chambers, the two ships were less than twenty paces apart. The arquebusiers began exchanging fire again. Zhu Guobin and the others in the fighting top began loosing arrows in rapid succession. They held their fire until the range closed to twenty paces, shooting from their elevated position. Zhu Guobin's archery was the most accurate. Although the swaying at the masthead was greater than on deck, out of five arrows he still hit two men. The arrows carried full force, thrumming audibly as they embedded in the wooden planks. The red-seal ship had no fighting top and was at a complete disadvantage at this range. The sailors on its deck were forced to scavenge planks to hold up as shields against the arrows from the fighting top. Only a few arquebuses and bows offered feeble return fire from the deck; the rest of the men ducked and dodged, in utter disarray.

Chen Xin's heart pounded violently, his throat dry. Lu Lvzi was beside him, lying prone against the bulwark with his head exposed, watching the opposing deck and breathing heavily. That half-severed arm still lay before Chen Xin's eyes, constantly distracting him. Chen Xin steeled his courage, suddenly grabbed the arm, and hurled it with all his might out into the sea. After throwing it, a faint cool sensation lingered on his hand.

Lu Lvzi, beside him, said, "Brother Chen, shoot over there, quick — they're so close now. One hundred taels each."

Only then did Chen Xin remember that he too was a gunner. He scrambled to his feet, his legs a little weak. The red-seal ship before him was now about ten paces away, its wooden bulwarks shattered and ruined. Neither side's cannons were firing anymore. The Fujian junk had slightly more arquebusiers, plus the archers in the fighting top, completely suppressing the opposing deck. Chen Xin drew a deep breath, steadied his nerves, adjusted the matchcord's position, blew the match head bright, and began searching for a target.

From the red-seal ship came intermittent shouts — screams of agony, and voices issuing orders. On the Fujian junk, Proprietor Zhao was also shouting. All forty-odd sailors had been committed to the fight, standing ready at various points on the deck. Lao Wang, Han Yong, Hei Pao, Han Bin, and the others all wore their usual expressions, drawing their weapons and quietly awaiting the moment of grappling.

Hei Pao saw Chen Xin holding a large arquebus, aiming for ages without firing. Everyone else loaded and shot. This bookkeeper was probably scared witless, forgotten how to shoot. Still, he was better than the old Lao Cai — at least he dared come up on deck to fight. That Lao Cai had literally pissed his pants in terror last time.

"Grapple!"

The moment Proprietor Zhao's words fell, seven or eight flying claws sailed across the five-pace gap between the two ships, hooking onto the red-seal ship's gunwale and bulwarks. One flying claw happened to catch a Japanese sailor right in the shoulder blade. The men on the Fujian junk pulled hard, and the claw bit deep into the Japanese sailor's back, dragging him over the red-seal ship's side. His body dropped, about to fall into the sea, when the rope of the flying claw at his back suddenly snapped taut, hooking his scapula and suspending him in midair. He let out a heart-rending howl, his limbs flailing wildly, tears and snot streaming down his face.

The men gripping the flying-claw ropes all heaved with full force. The distance between the two ships abruptly closed from five paces to just two or three meters. From behind the red-seal ship's bulwark came a great shout, as seven or eight sailors suddenly stood up, thrusting with long spears and grappling hooks. The Fujian junk did the same.

For a moment, long spears crisscrossed above the bulwarks, their sharp points tearing through clothing and armor without hindrance. Several pairs of combatants stabbed each other simultaneously. One Fujian junk sailor was stabbed in the throat and fell backward onto the deck, clutching his neck. He tried to shout, but only a gurgling sound emerged from his throat, blood ceaselessly flowing through his fingers. In this exchange, several men on each side were struck and fell. Others extended grappling hooks to catch the opposing ship's side, bracing their feet against the deck and straining to pull the ships closer. Chen Xin, at the bow where the ships did not yet meet, still had not fired.

Bang. The two ships' sides finally crashed together. The hulls rocked violently several times. Chen Xin hastily steadied himself with his left hand against the bulwark. A moment later, the hulls steadied again. On both decks, battle cries shook the heavens. On the red-seal ship, planks were shoved aside, revealing the sailors behind them, weapons in hand.

Among them, one man dressed as a Japanese samurai, with the look of a leader, was shouting wildly and brandishing his Japanese sword. Just as he stood up, a gunshot suddenly thundered from the Fujian junk, deafeningly loud. A flash of blood burst from the leader's chest, his shouting cut off mid-cry. As if struck by an iron sledgehammer, his chest cavity suddenly collapsed. He toppled backward, head down and feet up, one shoe flying high into the air. He was dead before he hit the ground. The immense power of the Banjiu foot gun was unmistakably displayed.

Hei Pao bellowed, "Bookkeeper Chen's got his hundred taels! Death to any who retreat!!! If you want silver, follow me!"

The sailors on the Fujian junk roared and surged toward the grappling point, hacking and slashing at the Japanese sailors across the bulwarks. Flesh and blood flew beside the ship's sides, intermittent mists of blood bursting into the air. The dense press of bodies made it impossible for anyone to dodge; they fought purely on instinct, stabbing and slashing at any enemy they saw. The sailors who had thrown the flying claws tied the tail ends of the ropes to cannons or masts. The two ships were now lashed together as one — neither side had any path of retreat.

Zhu Guobin, in the fighting top, loosed three arrows in rapid succession, striking three men clustered together. The arrows sank deep into their bodies. All three were either dead or wounded, opening a gap in the line. Han Yong was right at this gap. Seizing the chance, he suddenly leaped across the gunwale first, slashing left and right. The other sailors from the Fujian junk swarmed after him, charging across the ship's side together. The red-seal ship's deck descended into a chaotic melee.

The Fujian junk had roughly forty men. The red-seal ship, having suffered greater losses, had only a little over thirty. On the cramped deck, they fought in a life-or-death struggle. Face-to-face cold-weapon combat inflicted massive casualties in an instant. Blood pooled rapidly on the deck, streaming in rivulets through the gaps in the ship's sides and into the sea.

Lu Lvzi's back flashed before his eyes. Chen Xin hurriedly reached out but failed to grab him. He watched him fight fiercely at the ship's side for a moment, then leap onto the red-seal ship as well. Chen Xin grew secretly anxious. After that close-range shot had hit its mark earlier, his mind seemed to have suddenly relaxed considerably, and his reactions had quickened. He also felt no nausea or urge to vomit. Chen Xin planned to stay on the Fujian junk and take potshots, safely getting through his first battle. Then he would no longer be a green recruit on the battlefield, and if he encountered combat again, his odds of survival would be much greater.

There was no other option now anyway. The red-seal ship was a whirl of blades and flashing steel. If he chased after them, he might not even be able to help. Chen Xin could only speed up his reloading. He first removed the matchcord. His hands still trembled a little, but much less than at the start. With effort, he managed to load powder and shot. Across the way, battle cries shook the heavens, every kind of howl and scream unceasing. Worried about Lu Lvzi, Chen Xin observed while reloading. Several times he glimpsed Lu Lvzi's figure, only for it to vanish again into the crowd. Zhu Guobin's figure was the most conspicuous — he moved swiftly, his techniques simple and direct, his strikes carrying immense force. He had already cut down several men in succession.

After pulling the ramrod from beneath the gun barrel, Chen Xin failed several times to align it with the muzzle. He had to press the arquebus against his chest, his hand also pressed against his chest for stability, before he could insert it. He tamped it down lightly. A few droplets of blood sailed over the ship's side and landed on Chen Xin's face. He did not bother to wipe them off, focusing intently on finishing the loading. Finally, he reclamped the matchcord, adjusting its position slightly to align with the priming pan.

By the time everything was done, roughly a minute and a half had passed. Only then did Chen Xin possess offensive capability again. His heart eased. He seemed to be slowly adapting to this combat atmosphere. He rested the gun directly on the bulwark and searched for the nearest target.

In his field of vision, a fierce figure moved with sweeping, powerful strokes. Proprietor Zhao's Japanese sword flashed like lightning as he fought a Japanese samurai. That samurai was no weakling either, equally forceful and powerful. Both wielded fine Japanese swords, their blades now notched from clashing against each other. For the moment, neither could gain the upper hand. Lao Wang loyally guarded the flank and rear, seeking an opening to assist Proprietor Zhao, keeping the Japanese samurai's flank under constant threat and forcing him to retreat step by step toward the bow. Suddenly, a Japanese sailor vaulted over the red-seal ship's starboard bulwark, aiming to flank Proprietor Zhao from behind. Lao Wang hurriedly moved to engage him. That sailor also had some skill, and they quickly became locked in single combat.

Proprietor Zhao heard the commotion but showed not the slightest fear. The Japanese samurai before him was already on the back foot. Both men moved with great speed. Chen Xin had been trying to shoot that Japanese samurai but could not get a clear aim. Proprietor Zhao held a slight advantage, driving the Japanese back toward the bow. It seemed the Japanese would soon have no room left to evade.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Chen Xin spotted someone emerging from the cabin hatch behind Proprietor Zhao — a man wearing Korean-style trousers. In the chaos, this man had not noticed Chen Xin, who had only his head exposed. After glancing toward the bow, the man picked up a broken half-spear from the deck and lunged toward Proprietor Zhao's back. Chen Xin aimed his muzzle at him. The two ships were pressed together; Chen Xin was only a few paces from this man. He had over ninety percent confidence he could kill him.

The Korean reached Proprietor Zhao's back in an instant. Proprietor Zhao was fully focused on the opponent before him. Lao Wang had not noticed either. Everyone else on the ship was locked in fierce combat; no one noticed the shift at the bow. Chen Xin opened the priming pan cover, placed his finger on the trigger, and aligned the Korean's figure through the rear and front sights.

Just as he was about to squeeze the trigger, Proprietor Zhao's hideous, scarred face under that starlit night suddenly flashed through his mind. For a moment, Miss Zhao's delicate, pretty features and Proprietor Zhao's ugly knife scar alternated in his thoughts.

"Your life is in my hands. And the life of your so-called cousin."

"I heard you even passed the Licentiate exam?"

"My mother originally wanted to find a matrilocal son-in-law..."

"He took silver from outsiders, which led to my only son being killed..."

The Korean drew his right hand back, then thrust forward with all his might, the sharp spearhead hurtling toward Proprietor Zhao's broad back...