Wind Rises in North America 1625

Chapter 549 Assault on Acapulco

October 16, 1642, Acapulco, Santa Marie Fortress.

"what!"

A hoarse wail, filled with endless pain and fear, came to an abrupt end.

Mao Falu held the still-dripping bayonet, his chest heaving violently, his heavy breathing drowning out all the surrounding noise.

He stared intently at the motionless figure in front of him, his eyes bloodshot.

He was a young Spanish soldier, probably not even twenty years old, his face stained with gunpowder, tears, and dirt, his blue eyes filled with unbelievable terror and finally solidified despair.

His once bright military uniform was now covered in mud and dark bloodstains that were spreading.

He had just been pleading and begging for mercy in broken Chinese, his hands raised high above his head, but all of that was meaningless now.

The cold, hard feel of the bayonet traveled through the wooden frame to Mao Faluo's hand, but he felt no coldness. Instead, he felt a burning rage churning within his internal organs, making his throat dry.

He watched as the Spanish soldier's body twitched twice before finally becoming completely still.

A deafening cheer erupted all around. The red flag of the five stars was planted on the highest point of the fort. The surviving brothers were clearing away the last resistance and collecting weapons.

Victory.

But their platoon, no, their class, was almost completely wiped out.

Mao Falu's gaze passed over the fresh corpse and landed on a row of bodies that had been temporarily placed not far away.

That familiar figure was like a red-hot iron branding his heart.

That was his class monitor, Luo Daikui.

Just hours earlier, when the call to attack was sounded, things were not like this.

Mao Falu still remembers the sergeant slapping his helmet hard, his palm rough like sandpaper, and his loud voice with a heavy Shandong accent: "Mao Zai, stay close! When it's fighting, don't look around, the guns don't recognize people! If we take this damn artillery position, we might get some drinks tonight!"

At that time, they were all exhausted when they had just crawled out of that cliffside path that could hardly be called a road.

But they still launched a charge against the port forts with the utmost determination.

Two days!

They walked for two whole days along that mountain path that was marked as only seven or eight kilometers on the map!

There was no hot water, no hot food, only hard, tooth-crushing flatbread and nauseating canned food.

Sweat soaked through his military uniform and then dried it, leaving behind rings of white salt and alkali. His whole body was covered with red marks from mosquito bites and thorn scratches, which burned painfully.

But no one complained, because they were the first mixed battalion of the Xinhua Army, not only ranked first in serial number, but also in combat effectiveness and willpower.

Acapulco is right in front of us, but it's not like Guadalajara, much less like the Banderas Valley.

This damn place is fucking tough!

The navy's few dilapidated ships—Mao Falu thought the newly arrived "Haicang" was quite imposing, but in the squad leader's words it was just a "slightly decent dilapidated ship"—didn't dare to get too close, because the port's gun emplacements were like hedgehogs, constantly spitting out flames and death.

The shells whistled as they crashed down, sending up towering columns of water that seemed to stir up the entire bay.

Since the navy couldn't break through the port's fortifications, they could only rely on their army to launch an attack from the port's flanks and rear.

Two days ago, more than 800 officers and soldiers from their First and Fourth Mixed Battalions boarded several transport ships and launched a landing operation on a hidden beach eight kilometers southeast of the port of Acapulco, in preparation for dealing with the Spanish fortifications from the rear.

It must be said that the conditions at their landing site were extremely poor. Not only were the sea conditions terrible, with waves several meters high constantly being stirred up by the sea breeze, but the landing area consisted of only a beach of about 500 square meters, with steep cliffs on both sides.

If the Spanish had fortified this place, even with just a single cannon mounted on the cliff, they would have had no chance of landing.

Fortunately, the location chosen by the intelligence officers was relatively secluded, surrounded by wilderness with no main roads, making it impossible for the Spanish to set up an ambush on the shore. This allowed the Xinhua soldiers to successfully complete the landing operation by small boat.

However, due to the poor conditions at the landing site, they were unable to bring their artillery ashore, which could be a difficult test for attacking the port forts.

All their hopes were pinned on the muskets in their hands, the grenadiers' bombs, and the soldiers' reckless and ruthless spirit.

The path they took—or rather, the path they should not be called a path—was a narrow trail carved out by Native Americans hunting.

Mao Faluo felt that the hardships he had endured in his entire life, no, even combined with the hardships his parents and fathers had endured over several lifetimes, probably couldn't compare to the hardships he had endured in these two days of climbing this "road".

This is supposed to be called a road?

The guide, Lynx, was a taciturn Native American with eyes as sharp as a hungry wolf, and he called this the "hunting trail."

In Mao Falu's view, this was simply a wrinkle on the face of the mountain god, meant for goats and monkeys to walk on, not for humans, much less for their army of several thousand men.

It was frighteningly narrow; in most sections, it was only wide enough for one person to squeeze in sideways, clinging to the cold, slippery moss-covered rock face, inching forward.

The heavy rifle and backpack on his shoulders would occasionally rub against and collide with the uneven rocks, making a teeth-grinding creaking sound.

The so-called road underfoot was nothing more than compacted soil in the cracks of rocks, covered with loose gravel.

On one side was a dizzying abyss and seawater, with clouds swirling at their feet. Only gusts of cold wind howled upwards, like little devils from the ground, their tongues licking their trouser legs, trying to drag them down to meet the King of Hell.

"Don't look down!" Squad leader Luo Daikui kept growling, "All of you, look straight ahead! Keep your eyes on the back of the person in front of you! If anyone looks down and their legs cramp up and they fall, I'm not going to go down and save you!"

The words may be rough, but the reasoning is sound.

Mao Falu tried it once. He only glanced at it a few times, but he felt like the whole valley was spinning. His stomach churned, and he almost fell headfirst. Luckily, the brothers behind him held on tightly to his backpack strap.

Often, they weren't walking at all, but crawling.

It requires using both hands and feet, digging your fingers deep into the cracks in the rock, and searching for any tiny protrusion with your toes, sticking yourself to the cliff face like a gecko.

Gravel kept being trampled down by the people in front, rolling down with a clatter, and for a long time the sound of it hitting the ground could not be heard, only a series of heart-pounding echoes.

"Watch out! Hold on tight!"

"Over here! There's a ridge over here!"

"Slow down, slow down, this part is too slippery!"

The suppressed, tense, and breathless reminders were relayed intermittently through the ranks.

Everyone was on edge; every step, every hand switch, was a matter of life and death.

Sweat stung my eyes, burning them, but I dared not let go and wipe them away.

The military uniform was already completely soaked with sweat, dew, and the dampness of the rock wall, clinging tightly to the body, cold and sticky, extremely uncomfortable.

Exhaustion and tension, like maggots clinging to bones, slowly gnawed away at their physical strength and willpower.

My shoulders ached from the backpack straps and rifle slings, as if they were digging into my bones.

My calves felt heavy, like they were filled with lead, from the prolonged tension and strain, and they kept trembling.

Everyone was like a silent ant struggling to crawl up a vertical cliff. All they could rely on was the back of the brother in front of them and the helping hand that the brother behind them might extend.

Falls and slips happen frequently, and some brothers have even fallen into the valley by accident, accompanied by their piercing screams, which chills the heart.

Mao Fallu cursed in his heart more than once, cursing this damned place, cursing this damned war, and cursing the Spanish who built the forts so sturdily.

But he was even more afraid—afraid that he might slip and fall, afraid that the person in front of him might slip, afraid that he might die inexplicably on this cursed road before he even saw the enemy.

He hasn't married yet, and he hasn't left any bloodline for his ancestors in the Mao family. He can't just fall to his death on the cliff like this.

He would steal glances from time to time at Luo Daikui, the squad leader who was walking not far ahead. His back was still broad, but his movements were clearly heavy and cautious.

He could even see the glistening sweat and taut muscle lines on the back of the squad leader's neck, as well as the slight trembling of his calves.

Damn it, even a fearless guy like the squad leader is so scared, which shows how dangerous this road is.

When the last breathtaking cliffside path was left behind and the view suddenly opened up, almost everyone was stunned for a moment.

The port of Acapulco is just ahead!

The several gun emplacements that had kept them out of the harbor stood prominently to their side and below!
You can even vaguely see the figures of Spanish soldiers running around behind the gun emplacements and that annoying red diagonal cross flag (Burgundy Cross).

The sea breeze blowing in my face was no longer the chilly air from the cliff, but a hot wind carrying the strong smell of gunpowder, the salty smell of the sea, and a hint of... a hint of the city.

This sudden change almost caused Mao Falu's brain to shut down for a moment.

They were like a group of monkeys who silently darted out of the forest and suddenly appeared on the enemy's least guarded side.

He could clearly see that behind the nearest fort (which he later learned was called the San Felipe Fort), several Spanish soldiers who were carrying cannonballs looked up unintentionally. Their expressions changed from nonchalant to extreme astonishment and disbelief in an instant. Their mouths were agape, and the cannonballs in their hands slammed to the ground with a thud, rolling far away.

A profound silence fell, as if even the cannon fire from the sea had paused for a moment.

It's now!

"Bros!"

"Kill it!"

Their battalion commander's voice boomed like thunder, hoarse and distorted from excitement and exertion, yet filled with an undeniable resolve.

There was simply no time to organize any ranks or lines!

There wasn't even time for the panting brothers to catch their breath!

"kill!"

The fatigue, repression, fear, and desire for battle that had accumulated over the past two days were completely transformed into the most primal urge to kill.

Everyone, officers and soldiers alike, disregarded formation and charged towards the artillery emplacements below like a flood bursting its banks, bayonets fixed.

The slope was very steep, and many people practically ran, jumped, or even rolled and crawled, using the momentum of their descent to frantically rush towards the enemy target. Leading the charge were dozens of burly grenadiers, carrying heavy leather ammunition pouches filled with large, dark, fist-sized tin can bombs, charging fearlessly toward the gun emplacement.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!..."

The Spanish finally realized what was happening, and panicked shouts, sharp rebukes from officers, and the chaotic sounds of hasty musket fire filled the air.

Bullets shot out from the firing ports and crenellations of the gun emplacements, hitting the charging troops in front of them and kicking up clouds of mud and gravel.

People kept being shot and falling, screaming as they rolled down the hillside.

But the tide of the charge did not stop in the slightest. Soldiers stepped over their comrades' bodies or empty spaces, their eyes fixed on the gun emplacements, and charged forward madly.

Those grenadiers were risking their lives. They neither sought cover nor deliberately hid—in fact, there was nowhere to hide on the gentle slope covered with weeds and pebbles. They simply kept their heads down and used the momentum of the downhill slope to shorten the distance to the outer wall of the fort as quickly as possible.

"Throw!"

Just as they were about to approach the gun emplacement within 30-40 meters, a loud shout and explosion rang out.

The grenadiers at the forefront suddenly stopped—this tactical maneuver, performed at high speed amidst a hail of bullets, required immense courage and strength—leaning back and using all their might to ignite the bombs with tinderboxes and throw them forcefully at the emplacements and firing ports of the gun emplacements.

One, two, ten, dozens...

The black bombs flew in arcs toward the gun emplacement.

"boom!"

"Boom boom boom!..."

A series of explosions rang out continuously, and black smoke mixed with fire and rubble suddenly rose up from the outer wall and inside the fort.

The sound of Spanish musket fire suddenly subsided, replaced by piercing screams and cries of terror emanating from within.

Before the smoke from the explosion had even cleared, the advancing Xinhua Army soldiers were already close to the perimeter of the fort.

"Charge! Charge in!"

Mao Falu followed his squad leader Luo Daikui, panting heavily, his eyes bloodshot, bayonets in hand, and joined the black torrent, treading on the soft, scorching earth softened by bombs, and frantically rushing toward the bomb-ravaged artillery position.

The first low wall encountered almost no decent resistance. Several Spanish soldiers, still dazed from the explosion, had just emerged from the smoke when they were stabbed to the ground by countless gleaming bayonets.

With the help of the human walls, one soldier after another scaled over the outer wall of the fort and jumped inside.

The entire fortress was thrown into chaos. The space was cramped, filled with smoke, and it was impossible to distinguish friend from foe.

Shouts of battle, the explosions of muskets firing at close range, the clang of clashing bayonets, the wails of the dying, roars of anger... all these sounds mingled together, crashing against the stone wall, creating a chilling echo.

Mao Falu didn't care about anything else; he only knew to follow the familiar figures of his companions ahead, mechanically blocking, thrusting, charging, and thrusting again.

The sensation of the bayonet piercing flesh was dull and nauseating; warm blood splattered on his face, which he merely wiped haphazardly.

Brothers around him were frequently shot and fell, or cut down by swords and knives, while Spaniards clutched their wounds and collapsed, screaming in agony.

They fought their way from one gun emplacement to another, vying for every narrow passage and every corner where the Spanish had gathered.

The battle was brutal and primitive; after the grenadiers finished throwing their bombs, they also drew their short knives and joined the melee.

Mao Falu saw his squad leader Luo Daikui descend like a tiger from the mountain, smashing a Spanish soldier who was trying to load his gun with the butt of his rifle, and then killing another with a bayonet.

He roared and, with all his might, plunged his bayonet into the abdomen of a man in an officer's uniform who was brandishing his sword and shouting...

He didn't know how long the fight had lasted, but when Mao Falu felt his arms were so sore and numb that he could barely lift them, he noticed that the resistance in front of him had suddenly weakened.

Inside the fort, only a handful of Spaniards remained standing; most had thrown down their weapons in terror and knelt down begging for mercy.

Cheers erupted like thunder from every corner, growing louder and louder until they finally coalesced into a sea of ​​jubilation.

"Wan Sheng!"

"Xinhua will win!"

A tattered but still vibrant red five-star flag was forcefully planted atop the highest watchtower of the fort by a tall soldier, fluttering in the sea breeze!

The San Felipe Fortress has been captured by them!
Mao Falu leaned on his rifle, panting heavily, his chest burning with pain, feeling utterly exhausted.

Looking at the scene of devastation and corpses strewn all around him, at the tired yet excited faces of his brothers, and at the fluttering flag, he was momentarily lost in thought.

They actually did it!
With muskets, bombs, bayonets, and their ruthless, fearless spirit, they actually captured this seemingly indestructible fortress.

However, before he could catch his breath or even take stock of the casualties, his superior issued a new order, leading them to attack another fort—St. Mary's Fort.

At this time, the naval ships that had launched a feint attack in the bay also quickly arrived at the port, preparing to occupy the dock and cover the landing of a large group of people.

Want to take a break?

No, it's not time yet; the war has only just entered a more brutal phase.

Mao Falu licked his chapped lips and gripped the musket tightly again.

He glanced at the squad leader's back—Luo Daikui was waving for them to follow—and then charged toward St. Mary's Battery in a skirmish line.

However, this time they had artillery cover.

The dozen or so artillerymen who followed turned several cannons of Saint Philippe toward the Sainte Mary Battery, providing maximum fire support for the troops.

The same tactics, the same fearless attacks, the surging charging ranks kept pounding on the Spanish defense.

Similarly, people continued to be shot and fall, their screams and groans drowned out by the louder gunfire and shouts of battle.

The air was filled with the pungent smell of gunpowder, blood, and a strange burnt smell.

They rushed to the outer wall of the fortress, where enemy volleys and hail of bullets rained down on them, pinning them down.

"Grenadier!"

The officer roared loudly.

A dozen or so bombs flew up, smoking, and the explosions temporarily suppressed the enemy's firepower.

"Charge!" Luo Daikui, holding his musket, led the charge.

It was at that moment.

Mao Falu saw the squad leader suddenly stop, as if he had been hit hard by an invisible giant hammer, and stagger backward a step.

The fierce, indomitable expression on his face froze, replaced by a look of astonishment, which was quickly overwhelmed by pain.

Blood gushed from his chest instantly, staining his dark blue military uniform red.

"Squad leader!" The soldiers, their eyes bloodshot, roared and rushed over.

Luo Daikui fell heavily to the ground, his eyes beginning to glaze over. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but only blood and foam oozed from the corner of his mouth.

He took one last look at Mao Falu, as if looking through Mao Falu towards his distant homeland, then tilted his head and never moved again.

The class monitor who always called him a "little brat" and mocked his greed... is gone just like that.

Mao Falu felt a buzzing in his head, and the whole world turned blood red.

All the sounds faded away, leaving only the roar of blood pounding in the eardrums and the tearing pain in the heart.

He picked up his gun like a madman and charged forward with his brothers, who were also consumed by rage.

He attacked every enemy who could still move with bayonets, daggers, teeth, and fists.

When the last gunshot subsided and the fort was finally captured, Mao Falu felt completely exhausted and could only stand by leaning against the wall.

His military uniform was soaked in the enemy's blood, sticky and cold.

Then he saw the Spanish soldier with a youthful face.

The kid was found in a corner, trembling with fear, and had long since lost his weapon.

He knelt on the ground, his hands raised high, repeating a few stiff words over and over, vaguely uttering phrases like "Spare me" and "Don't kill me."

His blue eyes were filled with the fear of death, like a frightened rabbit.

One of the brothers, cursing, raised the butt of his rifle, intending to smash him to the ground.

But Mao Fa Lu was faster.

At that moment, he seemed to see the soldier raise his gun and shoot, knocking their squad leader Luo Daikui to the ground, with a plume of gunpowder smoke rising from the muzzle.

That son of a bitch, it was this guy who killed Luo Daikui!

"what!"

He roared, pouring all his hatred into his thrust, and stabbed hard.

……

The main force was landing at the dock, and soldiers kept rushing ashore. The cheers inside the fort continued, but Mao Fallu felt that the surroundings were unusually quiet.

He looked at his hands, which were covered in blood, the blood of the enemy, and seemingly mixed with the blood of his squad leader and countless brothers.

Blood dripped from the bayonet, seeping into the scorched earth repeatedly plowed by artillery fire.

He silently walked to Luo Daikui's body. The squad leader lay there quietly, his face obscured by dust and blood.

Mao Falu squatted down and carefully wiped the dirt off the squad leader's face with his sleeve. Then he took out a relatively clean white towel from his pocket and gently covered his face with it.

The sea breeze, carrying wisps of smoke, blew past, ruffling a corner of the towel like a silent farewell.
-
(End of this chapter)