Night, black as ink, quietly swallowed San Juan Bay, and hid the four massive carrack sailing ships as well. The starlight was faint, the sea wind damp and restless, bringing the slaughter and shouting from the stronghold, along with a faint tang of blood and smoke.
"Lord! The barbarians are invading in force! There are large groups of figures fighting in the west and south! Shadow upon shadow—I don't know how many hundreds of barbarians! I heard Cannon too, dozens of them!"
"Idiot! That wasn't Cannon, that was Matchlock Muskets! The kind we usually use aboard ship!"
"Matchlock Muskets? We Sailors are all on the ships! Where would those Crusader Veterans and Holy Roman Empire Mercenaries get Matchlock Muskets? Could it be the barbarians?"
"How could that be! How could barbarians have Matchlock Muskets? If they've got Matchlock Muskets, can they still be called barbarians?!"
On the four great sailing ships at the mouth of the bay, the canvas was being quietly unfurled, trembling lightly in the wind like birds spreading their wings in terror. The Castile sailors cursed loudly and bustled about. They hauled lines and waterskins, had already raised the heavy iron anchors, and were ready. At any moment they could flee this place, flee this nightmare that had finally collapsed.
And as the sailors pulled the rigging tight, the huge gray-white shadows of the sails shifted and billowed beneath the moonlight. From afar, they looked like spirit banners swaying, proclaiming the slaughter and death unfolding on the island. No one was willing to go ashore at a time like this, much less take the initiative to reinforce the land. In that moment, the sailors' faces were cut apart by the shadows of the masts, making them look like ghosts. High above, the lookout was sweating like rain,