Chapter 59
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: volt
Chapter: 59
Chapter Title: Trinidad Naval Battle (Free up to here.)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Just as Rolli had tracked them down, the Spaniards were on high alert after suffering relentless pirate raids.
And then, a piece of news reached their ears.
"Eundakaru... the English have been spotted there."
It might have been nothing much. Frenchmen and Englishmen came and went from these parts all the time anyway.
"M-my God, Eundakaru is right around the corner, isn't it?"
"Calm down. There's no word of that bastard Drake showing up. It's just some Englishmen. Probably merchants."
"Why would mere merchants come here? Didn't they ban the slave trade? And Englishmen being 'just merchants'? Pirates are their main gig, trading's the side hustle!"
"...You're right."
But the Spaniards lingering in Ribeira Grande were divided upon hearing the report.
"We need to get out of Ribeira Grande fast. Eundakaru is practically next door."
"We've got so few ships in our fleet— are we really fleeing like cowards just because a few English showed up?"
"You never know! They could be scouts, with the 'real' force lurking behind..."
"..."
"..."
It was a chilling possibility.
Even those who grumbled about leaving with holds not fully loaded, or those who worried about breaching contracts and losing trust with local merchants in Ribeira Grande.
The threat of "English pirates" silenced them all.
"...All right, let's hurry up and set sail then."
"We still need time to prepare the fleet..."
"Drake's fleet is targeting the American colonies. Transferring these ships to the New World is the priority."
"Three weeks is too long— let's push the schedule up to about two weeks."
Two weeks should be plenty.
Enough time to shake off any pursuers from the rear.
As they thought that, the Spaniards suppressed the creeping sense of foreboding.
"They departed two weeks ahead of schedule?"
"Yes... My oversight. I'm sorry."
"No, Walter. Let's track them down quickly for now. Vicente? How long to catch up?"
"Hmm, their route is predictable anyway. If we plot the course right..."
"..."
"..."
"Well, let's get going? We should catch them soon enough."
They had clocks, telescopes, and 21st-century charts, after all.
And without those three, the enemy had no choice but to take the obvious route.
Drake had been hanging around the South American coast for days, repeating his routine of moderate eating and sleeping while waiting for news.
To reach Trinidad, they'd surely pass near this coast, and they'd be spotted by the lookouts patrolling the area.
Then he'd slap the complacent Spaniards across the face with a barrage of cannon fire, and once they reached their limit, overwhelm them with superior numbers in brutal boarding actions to crush them utterly.
The battle would end, and he'd claim a massive haul of treasure— and countless aluminum... no, freed African freemen.
With those thoughts sustaining him, Drake endured weeks of boredom. His obsession with treasure made his eyes gleam, and anticipation of slaughter sharpened his senses.
But his crew was another story.
"Hey... what's on the menu today?"
"Who cares about the menu? Eat whatever and stand watch."
"Watch? We've still got three weeks before the enemy shows— why watch now?"
Stuck on land for so long, the sailors had grown lax. They bartered with nearby native villages, gambled, and whored around.
In that state of utter discipline collapse...
"Th-there! Spanish warships sighted!"
"What? We've still got two weeks left?"
Prey had arrived.
Drake drew his sword and rushed aboard at the news. Half-drunken sailors scrambled onto the decks, hauling ropes and sails to prepare for departure.
As they sailed out, loading cannons and observing the enemy...
Observing...
"What the hell. Why are there so many..."
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! KABOOM!
Far more enemies than expected.
Cold sweat trickled down Drake's spine.
Intelligence had pegged the enemy escort fleet at around 15 ships, but it had swelled to 23. That was just the count encircling the massive galleons.
And even one more full-sized galleon to boot.
"Oh, fuck me, Lord... Maintain formation! We've got first shot anyway— puts us at an advantage!"
And then.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! KABOOM!
Cannonballs skimmed parallel to the waves once more.
Having approached while readying broadsides, the English managed several powerful volleys. The Spaniards floundered without proper formation.
Several small ships had sails torn, crippled already. The English cheered.
But Drake chewed his lip, thinking.
'Not enough.'
In battle, numbers were everything— first, second, and third.
And here, the Spaniards led in all three. Celebrating a few crippled small fry was premature across the board.
Their only edges were morale from extended rest and tactical surprise as attackers.
Fail to break their momentum in the first strike, and the fight would turn against them...
"Fire!"
BOOM! BOOM! KABOOM!
Allied broadsides rang out again, revealing Spaniards scrambling on deck. But only briefly.
BOOM! BOOM!
A geyser erupted right in front of Drake.
The enemy cannons were warming up. From here, things would only worsen for his side.
'Where are Virginia's ships?'
...Nowhere in sight, as expected.
Damn. That weird plan had felt off, and sure enough, it flopped. Even for the "Mystery of the Seas," it was too much.
"E-enemy approaching!"
"Keep firing and hold position! Stay put!"
Enemy ships closed into clear range, leveraging their numerical superiority.
They planned to encircle and devour, closing with cannon fire before boarding piecemeal.
Drake wasn't surprised by the enemy commander's judgment.
A fleet wasn't one body but allied floating islands.
Naval formations required meticulous coordination. That's why attackers held the edge in sea battles.
Yet the enemies moved without haste, wheeling clockwise to shatter his line seamlessly.
And when their broadsides faced him in unison.
"Fire (Fuego)!"
Dozens, hundreds of balls screamed in.
BOOM! BOOM! KABOOM!
The hull shuddered, sailors tumbled. They'd taken a hit somewhere.
But it didn't matter. Ships rarely sank from cannon fire alone. As long as masts held.
"Everyone all right?!"
"Fine!"
"Then quit standing around like idiots and fire again!"
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Shells streaked like a school of flying fish, black bodies glinting over the waves in all directions.
Screams of unlucky souls shredded by shot, soldiers patching splintered hulls with planks, officers barking orders— the deck became pandemonium.
"Ha, hahahaha!"
A few allied masts cracked. Enemy losses? One or two.
Fuck. Halfway to defeat.
Drake laughed bitterly, yanked the wine bottle from his belt, poured it over his head, drew his sword, and bellowed.
"Fuck it, we're done! Prep to run!"
Even as he said it, his eyes frantically tracked ships. Nearby islands, wind direction, vessel maneuvers...
No clean escape.
Bloody boarding melee ahead.
Though little time had passed and deaths numbered barely a dozen, Drake already envisioned the carnage.
He wasn't alone. Veteran sailors loaded pistols, drew blades, belted out rowdy shanties to steel nerves.
And suddenly.
Silence blanketed the sea.
No shells from either side. Approaching foes maintained perfect order, bracing for melee.
Readying grapples.
Drawing swords.
Belting songs to calm pounding hearts.
And then.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! KABOOM!
Silence shattered.
The sudden broadside wasn't allied. Enemy then?
No.
Which meant...
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! KABOOM!
The enemy line fractured abruptly.
As if someone had appeared from the rear...
Aha.
Finally, two massive transports entered Drake's view.
Clippers, cannons perilously mounted on deck for this moment.
They wheeled sharply, raining shells. Enemy ships, broadsides depleted on foes ahead, flailed helplessly.
Stunned English sailors snapped to, chanting in rhythm as they manned posts and turned toward the enemy.
Chaos was opportunity. Drake grinned wide and roared anew.
"Anyone prepping to flee dies by my hand!"
And no one prepped to flee.
They were born pirates.
Gifted with instinct for whom, where, when, and how to plunder.
And the answer now was clear.
Plunder the foes before their eyes, immediately.
Me, who'd only lived in cities or countryside, had gotten a feel for sailing zipping between Croatoan and Chesapeake.
And riding clippers for months taught me something.
These ships were insanely fast, terrifyingly unstable.
Like a Damas with jet engines strapped on.
Everything sacrificed for speed— life aboard was hellish.
Problem was, as sailing ships, that "speed" demanded steady winds and routes.
Headwinds? Useless.
In combat, their flaws screamed.
Low armament, big hulls, low freeboard, wind-dependent handling?
Sitting ducks.
"We should engage now..."
"Wait a bit longer."
"Sir Nemo? Our allies are getting pushed..."
"Not yet."
So I waited. Until my precious crew and clippers weren't shredded meat and splinters.
"Sir Nemo! No more cannon fire!"
"Now!"
"Now it is, brothers! Let's kick those slavers' asses!"
And now was the time.
Rolli and I shouted together; sailors sprang into action.
A fair wind blew.
Like racehorses at the starting gun, the two warships surged madly. Before enemies reacted...
"Hard to port!"
Wheel and fire!
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! KABOOM!
Spaniards, caught utterly off-guard, panicked and floundered.
Not just from our two ships.
One ambush they could swallow. A second? They panicked, unsure how many more English reinforcements lurked.
Some flung grapples, but out of reach— lost to the sea.
And we had shells aplenty.
"Fire!"
BOOM! KABOOM!
Few guns, but vast holds. Low rate of fire, endless ammo stockpiles!
Our relentless barrage threw enemies into full chaos, wheeling port and starboard in tension. English ships charged the gaps.
BOOM! BOOM! KABOOM!
After our barrage, Spanish ships reeled like rags. English vessels slipped in, sparking melee.
Satisfied with our work, we clapped cheers. Vicente's Voyager had emptied her guns and retreated; our turn.
"Good work, Walter?"
"All hands, prep retreat! Fire while maintaining range!"
Enraged foes pursued late, but too slow. We unfurled sails, dashing rearward...
"Uh..."
...or trying to.
The wind died.
Our clipper halted dead, true to form.
...Row maybe?
As I pondered, enemies closed slowly. Voyager long gone, they targeted Enterprise alone.
Crew screaming Spanish curses in fury.
Twirling grapple ropes for boarding, peering down at us.
Down.
Low freeboard.
Boarding disadvantage.
Uh...
"Walter?"
"Here."
"Have everyone else below decks."
"All hands! Below decks! Barricade entrances!"
"And give me 'that'."
"Got it."
I grabbed "that," Rolli raised his Lexan shield. Few left on deck as Spaniards boarded.
"Rolli, cover me without getting flanked."
"Understood."
"Rest of you, stay alive."
"Yes, Sir Nemo!"
Spaniards leaped aboard, glanced around...
...froze at my "that."
"Wh-what the hell is that monstrous thing..."
VROOOOOM!
What else?
Excellent communication tool.
I swung the chainsaw, charging the enemy.
"Fire, everyone! Hurry!"
Riflemen with Lexan shields covered me from behind.