Chapter 414: Want to Run

The third day after Lisbon fell.

Zhu Yong stood on the tower of the monastery north of the city, a map he had just pried from a captive clenched in his hand.

The parchment was yellowed and its edges heavily worn, showing the terrain and town distribution of northern Portugal.

Porto lay three hundred li north of Lisbon, by the sea, the largest port city in northern Portugal.

King Ruo'ang I had fled there three days earlier with the queen and princes, accompanied by several hundred royal guards and a great amount of Gold and Silver treasure.

"Second Prince, the scout is back," Zhu Gang said as he came up the stairwell, a freshly written military report in hand.

Zhu Yong took it and unfolded it.

Porto's defenses were somewhat stronger than Lisbon's; the walls rose Three Zhang high, with a moat outside.

About five thousand garrison troops were stationed inside, and with the routed soldiers who fled from Lisbon, the total force could approach eight thousand.

The harbor outside the city held a dozen or so large ships, ready to set sail at any moment.

"The king wants to run," Zhu Di said calmly as he came up from behind, glancing at the report.

Zhu Yong nodded.

Ruo'ang I had prepared the ships, essentially to block any pursuit.

If Porto fell, they would board and flee to England or France, then bring reinforcements back.

"No escape."

Zhu Yong handed the report to Zhu Di and asked, "Third brother?"

"He is below counting the captives, saying a few Portuguese nobles wish to surrender and want to see you," Zhu Gang replied.

A faint smile tugged at Zhu Yong's mouth.

Surrender?

These nobles had just days ago been shouting "Fire!" from Lisbon's walls, and now that the king has fled, they suddenly wish to surrender.

"Bring them up..."

Soon, Zhu Shuang led three Portuguese men in ornate robes up to the tower.

All three were in their fifties, with graying hair and neatly trimmed beards.

Their robes, though splendid, were crumpled, showing they had not slept well these days.

They approached Zhu Yong, fell to their knees with a thud, and muttered incoherently.

Wang Gui came up from behind and translated, "Your Lordship, they say they are Portuguese nobles: one a duke, one a marquis, one a count.

They are willing to submit to Great Ming, asking only to preserve their family's land and property."

Zhu Yong stared at the three trembling Portuguese nobles on the ground, silent for a moment.

Land and property...

Having fought all his life, he had seen too many of these people.

When the enemy arrives they surrender, then beg for mercy, and once mercy is granted they betray again.

"Tell them the land is confiscated, the property registered, and the people are innocent," he said calmly.

Wang Gui translated.

The three nobles' faces turned ashen at once.

The duke lifted his head, his lips trembling, and spoke a few more words.

"Your Lordship, they say they have lived here for generations, the land passed down from ancestors, please show mercy."

Zhu Yong looked at him.

Generations living, inherited from ancestors?

What about the common folk on this land?

Those peasants they have exploited, squeezed, enslaved?

"Tell him, according to Great Ming's rule, land belongs to the court, the people farm and pay taxes, there are no nobles; their lands will be reclaimed by the court and given to landless peasants. Land... cannot be divided; ask them whether they want their lives or money..."

Wang Gui translated.

The three nobles slumped on the ground, faces ashen.

Zhu Yong no longer looked at them, turning to gaze at the distant sea.

The sun rose from the east, tinting the whole sea golden.

On the sea, the steamships' smokestacks belched black smoke as soldiers moved supplies, preparing to head north.

"Second Prince, when do we set out?" Zhu Shuang asked.

"Tomorrow at first light."

Lisbon to Porto is three hundred li.

The land route takes four to five days; the sea route is faster, reaching in two days.

Zhu Yong decided to split the forces into two routes.

He led ten thousand Longxiang Army by sea straight to Porto's harbor, blocking the king's escape route.

Zhu Shuang took ten thousand troops overland, attacking the city from the south.

Zhu Gang and Zhu Di stayed in Lisbon, securing the south and waiting for their return.

At first light the next day, the fleet set out from Lisbon's port.

One hundred twenty steamships, half left in Lisbon, the remaining sixty carrying ten thousand Longxiang Army, sailed north along the coast.

The sea breeze was mild, the ships moving at a steady pace.

Zhu Yong stood at the bow, watching the distant coastline.

Portugal's coastline was very straight, with few bays and few ports.

Porto was the largest northern port and their objective for this journey.

After walking for two days, the outline of Porto appeared ahead.

The city wall was grayish, shimmering with a dull light under the sun.

In the harbor, a dozen large ships were moored, their masts bearing the flag of the Portuguese royal family.

Soldiers filled the city wall, the cannons were already set up, their muzzles black and gaping toward the sea.

Zhu Yong squinted and watched for a while, then said, "Command, form the formation, prepare to land."

The Command was passed down, and sixty steamships began to change formation.

The vanguard of twenty ships moved toward the harbor, each wing spread ten ships, and the central twenty ships pressed the formation.

The roar of the steam engines was deafening, and black smoke billowing from the funnels obscured half the sky.

On the city wall, the Portuguese had clearly spotted the fleet.

Horn Sound wailed, and the soldiers scrambled up the wall, some shouting, some hauling ammunition.

A middle‑aged man in ornate armor stood at the highest point of the tower, brandishing a flag toward the sea.

"Your Highness, that is King João I of Portugal." Wang Gui stepped forward from behind, pointing at the middle‑aged man.

Zhu Yong glanced.

He was in his early fifties, sported a large beard, was burly, and standing on the tower he exuded a certain presence.

But his hand was trembling.

The flag was waved with a wide sweep, yet it was evident his arm was shaking.

He was scared.

"Fire the cannons."

Three hundred rear‑loaded line‑bored cannons fired simultaneously.

Shrapnel shells ripped through the air, trailing long tails, striking Porto's city wall.

In the first volley, several bronze cannons on the wall were blown away, their barrels flipping several times in the air before crashing back onto the wall and shattering into pieces.

Portuguese soldiers were thrown into a heap, their cries rising and falling.

The second volley blasted a breach in the wall, the bricks and stones shattering, smoke and dust soaring skyward.

The third volley widened the breach, revealing the streets and houses inside the city.

"Landing…" Zhu Yong surged ahead, stepping down from the gangplank.

Both feet sank into the soft, spongy sand, each foot half‑submerged.

He looked up at the wall, now a wreck, and then at the frantic large ships in the harbor.

The king's ship remained there, unmoved.

"Chase…"

Ten thousand Longxiang Army troops leapt from the ships, Flintlock Guns loaded, bayonets unsheathed.

They charged toward the harbor, and the sailors on the large ships hurriedly raised anchor, set sail, trying to flee.