Chapter 1203 - Seizure

The Spanish returned fire. Even by twenty-first century standards, their response was remarkably quick. Shortly after the first cannonball passed over the Feiyun, another puff of smoke rose from the stern. A tumbling cannonball flew in, splashing down squarely in the Feiyun's fading wake—Lin Chuanqing estimated about fifty meters' error.

The Feiyun was over three hundred meters from the stern in a straight line—within effective range, but at their speed and given the stern's limited firepower, the Feiyun was safe. The Spanish guns' aiming and firing rate were slow; hitting anything would require incredible luck.

"Continue suppressive fire—target the stern gun ports!" Lin Chuanqing ordered, observing through binoculars.

While the Spanish were distracted by this strange vessel and its deadly firepower, two snipers opened fire simultaneously on Zhou Weisen's signal. Two gunners at one of the beach gun emplacements immediately collapsed.

The rifle shots were swallowed by the roar of the Feiyun's typewriter guns. The soldiers at the emplacement looked around in confusion—then more sniper fire, more men suddenly falling. In moments, the soldiers at the emplacement scattered and fled.

Zhou Weisen shouted: "Open fire!"

All Minié rifles fired in unison—an impressive sight as dense smoke instantly shrouded the tree line. But the sea breeze quickly dispersed it, followed by a second volley, then a third. Though the marines' and sailors' marksmanship wasn't up to Army standards, hitting a target the size of a large galleon at under three hundred meters posed no difficulty.

Lead balls poured onto the galleon's hull, gun ports, and deck like a violent rainstorm. Wood splinters flew everywhere amid the screams of falling sailors. Zhou Weisen knew he couldn't afford a protracted engagement—once the ship's sixteen gun ports on one broadside opened fire, his eighty-man line would be riddled.

"Machine gun team, suppress those gun ports!" Zhou Weisen bellowed. "Everyone prepare to assault! Fix bayonets!"

As the bugle call suddenly rang out, Zhou Weisen jammed a visored anti-riot helmet onto his head, waved his revolver, and charged out first with a great shout: "Forward!"

The marines and sailors behind him echoed the cry—"Forward!"—and surged toward the galleon as one.

To minimize exposure to enemy cannon fire, the assault force charged toward the bow in column formation while the M240 and snipers suppressed the deck from the flank, preventing the enemy from manning the two bow guns.

The M240 roared on their flank, 7.62mm NATO rounds streaking overhead in continuous bursts, sweeping back and forth across the foredeck like a broom. Zhou Weisen sprinted all-out. The sailors and soldiers in the camp had been stunned by fire from both directions and had completely lost the ability to react to the sudden assault.

Apart from a few quick-reacting men who raised matchlocks and fired blindly despite being out of range, they offered no effective resistance before collapsing. Within minutes the assault team had scattered the camp's soldiers and sailors—those who fought back were all killed; the rest either fled into the jungle or surrendered.

Marines quickly set up ladders at the bow. The special reconnaissance team led the boarding, and a sergeant scrambled up the bowsprit meeting almost no resistance, immediately firing a signal flare. The M240 shifted fire at once to seal off the mid-deck and prevent counterattack.

Zhou Weisen climbed onto the deck and slipped, nearly falling—a piece of skull under his boot. He cursed softly. The foredeck was already carpeted with bodies, and blood was flowing along the scuppers.

The first men up had already used their submachine guns to halt the Spanish counterattack—under the transmigrators' crossfire, the Spanish went down in waves. Zhou Weisen fired several bursts, dropping the last of them, then quickly shot the "cease fire" flare.

The Feiyun and the M240 team immediately stopped. The deck was thick with gun smoke and the reek of blood made his stomach turn. The dead were everywhere—body parts and gore coating every surface. Far worse than the San Luis. Clearly, when they'd launched their charge, most sailors and soldiers had been out of the hold, enjoying the rare calm weather on deck.

The marines quickly secured the entire upper deck. Ah San the translator was called forward to demand surrender. It didn't take much—the crew hiding in the sterncastle and below decks surrendered without further trouble, sparing them the need to deploy chlorine.

The body count on deck and in the camp totaled 150; fewer than 40 surrendered. A dozen or so had fled into the jungle.

The San Raimundo was smaller and carried no soldiers—she had departed with only about 250 crewmen. By the time she'd run aground, only 200 remained.

During the battle, four sailors and marines were killed—all shot by matchlocks while climbing the hull. One man fell during the boarding attempt and broke his leg, but wasn't seriously hurt; the medic splinted it.

Zhou Weisen had a few captured sailors go into the forest to bring back the escapees, promising them prisoner treatment and guaranteeing their lives.

The captain was brought before him—a white-haired old man who, when asked his age, turned out to be over sixty. In an era when average life expectancy barely exceeded fifty, and a single voyage might kill half a crew, having a sixty-something captain sail across the ocean seemed inconceivable to Zhou Weisen.

Perhaps sensing his confusion, the old man remarked that though he was somewhat advanced in years, there were captains in their eighties still sailing—his age was nothing remarkable.

"So you're a professional navigator?"

"That's right—my family have been sailors for generations." The old captain seemed quite proud. "My ancestor Alonso Hernández Ávila served as helmsman on one of the ships that followed the great Marquis of the Valley to conquer New Spain."

He then boasted of his family's generations of glorious service to "Their Catholic Majesties," apparently suggesting he was a man of consequence.

Zhou Weisen learned through Ah San that the San Raimundo had also been caught in the typhoon several days earlier—their second storm of the voyage—which had destroyed nearly all masts and rigging and punched several holes in her hull. Only the galleon's renowned structural robustness had kept her from falling apart. Continuous pumping had barely kept her afloat this far.

Because a breach had suddenly widened the previous day and pumping could no longer control the flooding, the captain had decided to beach here for emergency repairs.

"Very well. On behalf of the Senate, I hereby declare you, your vessel, your crew, soldiers, and all cargo aboard to be prizes of the Senate. Until your fate is decided, as long as you obey our orders, I guarantee your personal safety."

The captain bowed, then said: "Might I venture to ask—which nation's senate?"

"The great Senate of Australia."

The captain's face showed utter bewilderment—clearly he'd never heard the term. Perhaps Ah San's translation was off.

But as a prisoner, he couldn't press the question and simply said: "At your service."

"My first order is that you organize your men to continue repairing this ship until she is seaworthy."

"Well, I haven't enough men..." the captain objected.

"My people will help."

So the camp was restored, and the surviving prisoners, under marine supervision, reassembled to clear the deck and repair the ship. The Spanish who'd fled into the jungle soon came out to surrender—with no food or powder, hiding in the forest would only make them prey for savages.

After conferring with Lin Chuanqing, Zhou Weisen decided to relocate the entire camp here. He had several rowboats offloaded from the galleon and sent Lin Chuanqing's men back to transport supplies. He also sent word to Lingao reporting their new position and the capture of the San Raimundo.

Though the transmigrators were all itching to inspect the San Raimundo's cargo, they decided against a detailed inventory for now—they simply affixed seals and would sort everything when they returned.

"Now we just have to wait for rescue," Zhou Weisen said.

Rescue came sooner than expected. The Haitian, dispatched from Xiangshan, had raced south before the wind. On July 28th, the lookout's binoculars picked up Samar Island's coastline. After radio contact with the camp, they quickly spotted a plume of black smoke rising from the northern cape.

The Haitian immediately closed with the shore. That smoke was the signal Qian Shuixie had ordered lit. When the Haitian came into view, the camp launched a green signal flare—Lin Chuanqing soon saw an answering green flare from the other side. Beiwei breathed a sigh of relief at last. They'd found them.

"Home at last—we can go home." Zhou Weisen panted harshly, his hands trembling as he held the signal rocket launcher. Lingao, that home he'd longed for day and night, suddenly seemed within reach again.

Mendoza was practically beside herself with joy. The moment she saw Beiwei step onto the beach, she rushed forward and threw herself into his arms, kissing his face in a frenzy, much to his embarrassment.

"It's nothing..." Zhou Weisen seemed magnanimous. "Latin women are just... passionate... like fire..."

"I know." Beiwei smiled wryly. "You all look pretty good for Robinson Crusoes—how was life on the island?"

"Not bad—just tired of eating rations every day." Lin Chuanqing's eyes were practically glowing. "Did the Haitian bring any transmigrator special-supply packages?"

(End of Chapter)