The sea wind was cold and gloomy, rolling up the faint firelight in the distance and carrying over the reek of blood on the wind. The tide surged, wave after wave slapping the shore, striking the last two Caravels in San Juan Bay.
Of them, the obviously larger one was the Castilian Expeditionary Force's true flagship, the "Holy Light." This great sailing ship had a displacement of 200 tons and mounted four 10-pounder Cannons and six 4-pounder Cannons—without a doubt, at the tail end of this fifteenth century, a main warship of Europe! The other, slightly smaller ship was the "Saint Paul," with a displacement of about 150 tons, and her Cannons were four 8-pounder Cannons and four 4-pounder Cannons.
Even so, the "Saint Paul" was still one of the top three great ships of the Expeditionary Force. As commander, Antonio naturally had this selfish thought: to keep the best big ships for his own people!
"Holy Mother protect us! Hurry! Let us up, up!"
Several boats rocked as they drew alongside the ship. Batch after batch of mercenaries stepped onto the damp gangway, their panting carrying the taste of salt, some indescribable look hidden in their eyes as they urgently climbed aboard. Swords hung at their waists, and daggers were hidden beneath their plates, as they pushed step by step onto the "Holy Light." Torches were lit here and there, illuminating one rough Germanic face after another. They shoved aside the Sailors blocking their way, their footsteps like chains that had not been fastened tight, spreading across the tidy deck, scattering into a loose, disorderly pool of threat. Very soon, more than a dozen Holy Roman Empire Mercenaries had boarded the great ship Holy Light, with even more climbing up behind them.
"Albert! I'll accompany the commander aboard the