The endless historical battlefield that began with World War I

Chapter 417 Feigning Death

George could see clearly that the North Star's guns were still pointed at the Ikaruga, and that the Ikaruga might not be able to hold out in the next round of fire.

He only had two choices.

First, maintain course. The Freedom is slowly approaching the side and rear of the Polaris, and in a few more minutes, it will gain a fairly good firing angle.

Another option is to abandon this position and insert the Freedom directly between the Polaris and the Ikaruga.

"Hard to port!"

The Freedom lunged at the Polaris, intending to draw the Grey Wolf's guns away from the Dove.

Now it was Renard's turn to choose: either continue attacking the Dove, but the Liberty would be on his side within minutes, or turn around and deal with the Liberty.

The Grey Wolf chose the Liberty.

The Polaris veered off course, turned to starboard, and headed straight for the oncoming Freedom.

The Turtledove was saved; it dragged its wounds eastward out of firing range, and the sailors were busy plugging the hole.

But the flanking position that George had fought so hard to secure was gone just like that. The Liberty was once again facing the North Star's guns head-on.

Another round of intense exchanges ensued.

A bullet struck the foredeck of the Liberty, and another member of Thomas's gun crew fell. The Liberty immediately returned fire, and the two ships locked in a fierce battle once again.

But George discovered something.

The North Star was adjusting its course, a perfectly normal operation, but the adjustment wasn't significant enough. The sails were moving, and the rigging was winding, but more slowly than before.

Just now, it turned around once while chasing the Tsunami, and then turned around again while chasing the Liberty. The two large turns were too close together, and the injured sail ropes really couldn't keep up.

French sailors were pulling desperately from the mast, but the foremast was missing a sling, one of the mainsail hoisting lines was broken, and the hoisting of the sail damaged a section of the rigging.

The Polaris can still fire and move, but it becomes slower with each turn than before.

Another twelve-pound shell came crashing down, the iron ball grazing the base of the sternmast, severing two flag-raising ropes, and knocking a section of the sterncastle railing off.

Oak shards swept across the deck, and Zachary leaned back, collapsing beside a cannon carriage. A gash appeared on his forehead, and blood trickled down his brow bone, obscuring his left eye.

He didn't touch his wound; he got up and grabbed the two broken ropes. The severed ends swung wildly in the wind, and the two flags that had just been tied were already...

The wind swept into the smoke from the gunfire.

"The signal cable is broken!!"

"Go down and bandage it," George said.

"Give me a new rope, and I'll climb up to catch it."

"Get out of here."

Zachary opened his mouth, wiped the blood from his eyes with his sleeve, lowered his head, covered his forehead, and walked towards the hatch.

Four hundred yards away, another row of lights appeared on the starboard side of the Polaris.

Every time the Polaris's twelve-pound bomb landed on the Freedom, it took something with it. A section of bulwark, a rigging, or a person.

The Freedom originally had ten cannons on its port side, but now only seven are still operational.

George looked east and saw that the Dove was still more than a nautical mile away, its hull tilted, and water was gushing out of the side drains as the water pumps were desperately pumping water.

Several men were hanging outside the port side of the Dove, holding planks and hammers to plug the hole.

Thomas.

Thomas emerged from the smoke of battle, his face blackened by the fumes. "Here!"

"Cease fire on port."

Thomas was stunned.

"Move all the men from the starboard side over here and fill the gun crews on the port side. One pack of explosives and two solid shot per gun. Load them, move them out of their positions, light the matchlocks, but do not fire."

"Double bullets?" Thomas's eyes lit up for a moment, then dimmed again. "Double bullets can only travel 400 yards, and half of them will fall halfway through."

"We don't shoot from 400 yards."

Thomas stared at him for a second, then without asking anything, turned and rushed into the middle of the gun crew, his voice hoarse from shouting: "Cease fire!! Cease fire on port!! Starboard, all of you, come here!!"

"Morgan".

Morgan had just run back from the foredeck, his hands covered in tar and blood. "Here."

"Loosen the rigging on the foresail and mainsail so that the sails can't catch the wind."

Morgan looked at him. "Now?"

"Now."

Morgan's Adam's apple bobbed. "————Okay."

Paddy ran down from the foredeck, his vest splattered with someone else's blood. He heard the ceasefire, and he heard the sails being lowered.

"George!! The cannons have stopped, the sails are down, he'll think we're finished!!"

"right."

Paddy stopped abruptly.

He stared, mouth agape, at the French ship still spewing fire four hundred yards away, then at George, his expression shifting little by little.

"—What about the Scabbard Dove?" he asked in a low voice. "The flag cable broke, so they can't see the signal."

George didn't answer. He turned his head and glanced eastward again.

The gunfire from the port side ceased.

The rigging lashed out of the pulley with a whooshing sound, and the mainsail and foresail suddenly lost power, the sails deflated, and the mast trembled violently.

The speed of the Freedom was decreasing, while the Polaris was still moving forward at its original speed. The relative positions between the two ships began to change. The Polaris moved forward little by little, while the Freedom drifted back little by little, slowly retreating from its transverse direction.

It was to its right rear.

On the gun deck, all seven port guns were pushed out, their muzzles protruding outside the gun ports. Each gun contained a packet of powder and two iron bullets.

The gunner squatted by the breech of the gun, the matchlock rod stuck in the sand bucket beside him, the end of the matchlock glowing red and emitting a wisp of thin blue smoke.

Cheers erupted from the other side of the sea. At first, they were just a few scattered cheers, but then they grew into a continuous roar, carrying across the four hundred yards of water.

The sailors of the North Star were cheering. Some were clinging to its bulwark, looking this way, while others threw their hats into the air. Before the cheers had even subsided, the gun ports on its starboard side lit up again.

This round of shots was inaccurate, with most landing in the water behind the Liberty, splashing up a row of white columns. But one shot pierced through the bulwark at the waist.

Splintered wood flew sideways. A young gunner was thrown to the ground, rolling in the sand clutching his thigh, a palm-sized oak splinter embedded in his leg, blood oozing from between his fingers.

Morgan was by the sail ropes. He released the rope, rushed over, grabbed the gunner, and shoved him into the arms of two sailors: "Take him away. Find Graves."

A man in his forties, an old gunner in his forties, stood up. His eyes were bloodshot. He grabbed a matchlock rod and shouted, "They're shooting at our men!! Let us shoot!! Shoot!!"

But before the matchstick could reach the fire door, a hand grabbed his wrist.

It's Thomas.

"Anyone who dares to touch the fire door, I'll chop off their hand."

The old gunner glared at him, the veins in his arms bulging. Thomas didn't let go; his jaw was taut, and the flesh on his cheeks twitched.

A few seconds later, the gunner's arm loosened. Thomas pulled the matchlock rod from his hand, stuck it back into the sand bucket, patted him on the shoulder, and walked to the next cannon. He paused at each cannon, pressing his hand on the gunner's shoulder.

No one stood up anymore.

George stood motionless by the railing of the sterncastle. Another twelve-pound shell whistled past his head, piercing the mainmast sail and leaving a round hole. He didn't look down; his eyes remained fixed on the east.

On the Izayoi.

"The Liberty has ceased fire!" the lookout shouted. "All the guns have stopped—the sails are loose—it's falling back! Captain, has the rudder been damaged?!"

Reed reached out and handed over the binoculars.

Reed watched for a long time before finally speaking. "The ship's wake is straight."

The lookout paused for a moment.

"The wake behind the Liberty is straight. If the rudder were broken, the wake would be crooked. The Liberty's sails are loose, but I think—he loosened the ropes himself."

"He put it there himself? Why?" "Look at the gray wolf."

The lookout looked toward the North Star. The French ship was still moving forward, and the people on deck seemed to be shouting something, but they were too far away to hear, only a bunch of waving arms and hats could be seen.

"Are they... cheering?"

"They thought the Liberty was finished," Reed said. "That's what George wanted them to think."

The lookout's gaze swept back and forth between the two ships, and the Freedom fell to the right rear of the Polaris. The left rear of the Polaris, on the side where the Ikaruga was located, was still empty.

"He wants the Grey Wolf to turn around," Reed said.

"But he didn't hoist the flag! He didn't tell us 'He can't hoist it.'" Reed gestured with his chin toward the Liberty's stern. "Look at his flagpole."

On the stern of the Freedom, two broken ropes swung in the wind, without any flags on them.

Reed turned around. "Raise the sails, hoist the midships, we're going to the port aft of the North Star."

"But we only have five cannons left to fire. The tunnel is still leaking. If he fires another round at us, we won't engage. We'll stop further away, somewhere his main guns can't hit us, but we can't just ignore it."

"But in that case, we won't be able to hit them."

"No need to hit him, just let him see us."

"What if he turns around and hits us?"

Reed glanced back at him. "Then he'll have to turn."

The lookout was stunned.

With its sails billowing, the Pixnet turned its bow and sailed toward the left rear of the Polaris, still through the leaking hole.

On the Polaris.

"They're finished, Captain!"

First Officer Duval of the North Star ran all the way from the main deck to the aft tower. He had long since lost his hat and his face was covered in sweat and gunpowder, but he was grinning from ear to ear.

"The Liberty's cannons are all silent! The sails can't hold the wind! It's falling backward. Let's give it two more rounds, and it'll have to lower its flag!"

Renard didn't turn around. He stood by the railing on the starboard side of the stern, holding up his binoculars to look at the Liberty for a long time.

The Liberty was already several hundred yards to its right rear, its sails swaying loosely against the mast, and the row of gun barrels on the port side were still sticking out of their gun ports, but none of them had fired.

"captain?"

"Left rear!!" shouted the lookout on the masthead. "That little boat! It's back!!"

Renard turned abruptly and switched the binoculars to the other side.

The Ikaruga, tilted to one side and dragging a wrecked bulwark along, was approaching the Polaris from its port rear. It wasn't moving fast, but it kept getting closer.

600 yards — 550 yards.

The first mate saw it too, and his smile faded: "That ship—we clearly crippled it just now."

"It's heading towards our stern." Renard lowered his binoculars, his eyes scanning back and forth between the two ships. Right rear.

It's the Liberty, its cannons are mute, and its sails are loose. To its left and aft is the Ikaruga, a battered and wrecked ship with only a few cannons left, yet it keeps moving toward the stern of the Liberty.

He can only manage one of the two directions at a time.

"Turn to port," Renard said. "Port gun crews, take position and fire that small boat back."

"That Liberty's sails can't hold the wind, it can't catch up." Renard had already walked towards the helmsman. "Shoot off this one at the stern first, then turn back and deal with the Liberty, quick!"

The orders were passed down one after another. French sailors surged towards the port gun emplacements, sail handlers grabbed the rigging lines, and the helmsman steered to port.

The North Star began to turn slowly. The sailors shouted as they pulled the spars back. The bow veered little by little to the left, toward the direction of the Dove.

And its stern was gradually swinging to the right, toward the Liberty.

"The North Star is turning!!" The lookout on the mast of the Freedom's voice changed.

George had already seen it. The bow of the North Star was turning to port, the sails were changing angle, and all the port guns were pointing in another direction—the Ikaruga.

Those on deck looked in the direction of the North Star's gun barrels and saw the crooked little sail. The Pierrot, dragging a rotten bulwark on one side, spewed out pumped water as it approached the North Star's port rear.

No one gave them a signal.

"Raise the rigging!!" George's voice rang out. "Tighten it all!!"

Morgan had been waiting for this. He grabbed the sail rigging with both hands, braced his feet against the bulwark, and leaned back, causing seven or eight sailors behind him to fall backward as well. The pulley screeched and spun, the mainsail and foresail, which had been loose for a while, suddenly swung around and filled with wind with a "thud".

The Freedom lurched forward, tilted, and people on deck who had nothing to hold onto nearly slipped and fell.

The bow cleaved through the waves, white foam billowing up from both sides, and its speed returned.

The North Star is turning.

"Ezra!" George pointed to the stern of the North Star as it swung towards them. "Aim at its stern and cut in from its right rear!"

"yes!"

On the stern deck of the Polaris, Renard's telescope hovered in mid-air.

He saw the sails of the Liberty billowing, the sails that had been flapping against the mast just moments before now taut. The doomed ship was accelerating, its bow coming directly toward his stern.

The first mate was still yelling for the port gun crew to aim at the Piedra when Renard grabbed his arm. "It's on purpose."

The first mate looked at the Freedom and froze.

"Turn back!! Turn right!! Turn back!!" Renard's roar startled everyone. "Foremast rigging! Bow sail! Quickly!!"

French sailors lunged at the sail-turning ropes, and the helmsman desperately tried to turn the rudder back, but the ship's initial veer to the left was still present, and it wouldn't be easy to turn it back immediately. Moreover, turning required the foremast's sail, but two of the foremast's support ropes had been broken, and if the sail turned too sharply, the mast might fall down as well.

A dozen or so people pulled the sail back with all their might, but they didn't dare to pull it all the way. On the third pull, "snap," the rope broke.