Ceuta (1)
Jermi Walli boarded the ships with the soldiers loyal to him. He double-checked their armament before turning to his adjutant.
"Don't worry, men! We'll launch a night raid on the enemy and seize Bensu in one fell swoop!"
The soldiers cheered in response. Two vessels, each carrying around four hundred men packed to capacity, began to move slowly. Normally, a ship like this could hold about 120 combatants excluding rowers, but with no heavy cannons weighing them down, they had loaded extra provisions in their place.
The rowers were convicts. If they successfully approached Bensu, these men would disembark first. It was only natural that the vanguard suffered the heaviest casualties. Jermi Walli had promised them pardon if they survived, stationing them at the front—little more than meat shields, in truth. For the return trip, he planned to press-gang local heretics into service as rowers anyway.
The young count who would join them later as reinforcements was bringing food and supplies with the follow-up force. In the meantime, they could capture heretics for labor, plunder the area for sustenance, and hold out.
"Shouldn't we spare a few rowers, sir?" his adjutant suggested.
Jermi Walli nodded. "Exclude the senior rowers and some of the older ones."
Running a crew of convicts meant keeping a few elderly men unfit for combat. These, along with the experienced rowers positioned at the innermost oars—right by the gangway—were spared. Unlike the prisoners, these commoners were professional oarsmen, often conscripted as combat troops during battles or transports. The inner rowers required skill, but the outer ones just needed brute strength, making convicts perfect for those spots.
The sun dipped lower toward the horizon. Seeing it, Jermi Walli issued the order.
"Hoist the sails!"
From here on, they needed to race along the coast. The admiral commanded his men to raise the sails. Dropping them near the shore risked detection if they hugged the coastline too closely. Instead, they'd raise sail and strike under cover of darkness.
Against a Catholic nation, a formal declaration of war was required, but heretics warranted no such honorable gesture.
As the rowing picked up speed, seasick soldiers began to groan. The Mediterranean was calm, but with no one aboard having sea battle experience, it was hardly surprising. Even Jermi Walli felt it; as the pace quickened and the waves grew choppier, his stomach churned.
Then he remembered the gift from the count: linking ships with iron chains to steady them like solid ground.
"Use the chains to connect with the other ship!"
The soldiers obeyed. A few coastal veterans stepped forward first, hurling the chains with practiced ease. Once linked to the opposite vessel, they pulled taut, steadying the hull's sway considerably.
The admiral briefly wondered how the young count had come up with such a trick, but dismissed it from his mind.
Enemy sentries had already spotted the approaching ships. He'd expected detection soon, but their reaction was faster than anticipated, leaving him flustered.
"Everyone, nock arrows!"
Bows were still in use at this time. Though small arms like the arquebus saw combat, their accuracy over distance was poor, so naval battles still relied on archery. Worst of all was the noise—firing now, with just one watchtower alerted, could summon the whole garrison.
"Kill the sentries before they can warn their comrades!"
Soldiers loosed arrows at the watchmen. Of the five, three fell pierced through, while two took arrows to the shoulder, grievously wounded.
Unless they finished them off, the enemy would catch on soon enough. But the survivors had ducked into the tower, making clean shots impossible. In the end, Jermi Walli opted for landing.
Bensu was right there; no need for the ships anymore.
"Close on the shore! We're landing now!"
The soldiers sprang into action. But as the vessels pushed toward the beach, they ground to a halt.
"The enemy must have strung chains underwater."
"Damn it..."
North Africa's coast was perpetually harried by the Maltese pirates, so they'd laid chains in advance to block easy landings. This stretch looked ideal for beaching regardless, forcing Jermi Walli to wade in from the anchored ships.
"Send the rowers ashore first!"
Terrified convicts were dragged out, dumped into the sea without so much as basic gear. Up to their waists in water, they bolted for shore in a desperate bid for life—only to tumble one by one.
"Aaaargh!"
"Aaack!"
"Kaaargh!"
Harrowing screams filled the air. Jermi Walli watched impassively, then addressed his men.
"Looks like the heretics strewed the shallows with sharp stakes."
The soldiers nodded. Most wore iron-plated boots, so it wouldn't hinder them much. Still, caution was wise—skirting the dead or stepping on corpses minimized risk.
Watching the vanguard convicts die horribly made the trailing prisoners hesitate, eyeing escape routes.
"Execute any fleeing convicts under military law."
"Yes, sir."
Soldiers drew pikes and Spanish rapiers. Seeing this, the prisoners had no choice but to press on.
Suddenly, a massive flare lit the sky. One of the two wounded sentries had signaled the intrusion.
"Move fast! Establish a defensive perimeter the moment we land!"
An able commander despite his corruption, Jermi Walli knew his trade. From here, it was a race against time. Charging straight for Bensu was suicide; they had to fortify the beachhead and unload supplies first.
Procuring food solely through plunder was madness—a commander's cardinal sin, toxic to any force, past or future.
Soldiers hurriedly formed a defensive line, unloading food and weapons. Jermi Walli anxiously scanned the direction he figured the enemy would come from.
Hundreds of torches flickered in the distance. At least the enemy numbers weren't overwhelming. The Spanish army was infantry supreme—even from a provincial holding like Malaga County, not quite the king's regulars, but troops Jermi Walli had trained himself.
The tercio. Its three core elements began to maneuver: the arquebusiers planting forked rests into the ground to brace against enemy charges, mounting their weapons atop them.
Behind them stood the pikemen and rodelero swordsmen, gripping their weapons tensely.
"Pikemen with pikes, hold formation!"
Rodeleros filled the gaps—swordsmen who shielded the intervals. The tercio's three arms moved in organic concert: arquebusiers fired first for shock, then fell back; pikemen advanced to form a wall of spears; swordsmen exploited breaches in close quarters.
A flawless system. Well aware of its power, Jermi Walli chose the safe play over rash advances in uncertain intel.
Now, entrenched in the enemy's heartland, survival was all that remained.
"I hear hooves!" the adjutant called.
Swift scouts must have detected them.
"Use the surviving convicts to slow the enemy assault!"
"Yes, sir!"
Prisoners were shoved forward again. No fleeing with armed soldiers herding them—forward or to the flanks, nothing else.
Hoping to dodge cavalry by slipping sideways, they scattered fan-like. Screams erupted from those veering right.
"Kaaargh!"
"Guhk!"
"Uwaaagh!"
Gruesome cries. The admiral remained stoic, ordering his men:
"Swing the gun muzzles that way."
Arquebusiers adjusted their rests. Fully prepared, they awaited the foe.
The ground trembled. Enemy cavalry charged, shamshirs curved like crescents whistling through the air.
"Fire!"
Muzzles flashed. Thunderous blasts and screams ripped through the night as the vanguard crumbled.
Jermi Walli seized the moment.
"Pikemen, advance!"
They surged forward. Front-rankers knelt, thrusting spears low to seal the line. Those behind angled theirs skyward against potential cavalry charges.
Swordsmen plugged the gaps, guarding the reloading arquebusiers. Impenetrable defense met ruthless offense.
One bold rider tried to bull through, horse and all—only to be shredded on spearpoints. The beast's weight snapped a few pikes, though.
Seeing this, Jermi Walli pressed his adjutant: "How long until reload?"
"Some powder got wet during unloading—won't ignite."
"Damn..."
Unavoidable mishap. He ordered the ready guns to fire.
About a third couldn't shoot again, but two-thirds could—good enough. They blazed at the cavalry, blunting their momentum.
The horsemen couldn't push seaward, so they circled, awaiting their infantry main body. Jermi Walli's troops held firm.