Night lay heavy, shrouding San Juan Bay. A deep-black curtain fell from the sky all the way down to the sea. The surface seemed like a pitch-black bronze mirror, faintly rippling with splintered silver moonlight, and reflecting the four tall-masted carracks as well.
The Caribbean tide slapped the rocky shore in murmurs, making it hard for the sailors aboard, burdened with worries, to sleep. Right now, the situation in the island camp was clear even to the dullest, most reckless sailor: the only bleak ending was retreat and departure. The only differences were when they left, and which people and goods they took with them.
"May the Lord protect us! May we carry the riches of eastern India, these cotton threads, pearls, spices, and feathers, and return safely to the harbor of Seville!"
The Castile captains prayed, gripping the crosses at their necks as they faced the east from which they had come. They had long since piled the goods they had plundered from the Natives into their holds until they were full. The strange tobacco had also been classed under spices, ready to be sold at spice prices. On all four great ships, the minimum number of sailors needed was kept aboard at all times, ensuring they could set sail in an emergency. This was not, in truth, Vice Commander Antonio's order, but the seasoned captains would make such arrangements on their own.
These old sea rats were brutal when they needed to be brutal, cunning when they needed to be cunning, and best at sniffing out the scent of something wrong. The Barbarian Warriors who had appeared during the day were like some ominous sign, telling them one uneasy truth: the barbarians of the Cipangu People had appeared once again!
"Praise the Lord! We are devout Crusader Army