The Shadow of Great Britain

109: Chapter 69 The Determination of the Royal Navy 109: Chapter 69 The Determination of the Royal Navy Above the English Channel, the Beagle held a favorable upwind position.

Through the lens of his monocular, Colonel Fitzroy was closely observing every move of the opposing vessel.

He saw the gangplank between the two ships being retracted, and immediately after, both vessels hoisted the signal flag indicating their ‘willingness to accept a stop for inspection.’

“This…”

Colonel Fitzroy looked at the two ships, which were nearly identical in size, and for a moment, he could not distinguish which one was the ‘Black Thorn’ they were looking for.

After a moment’s thought, he decided to maintain a safe distance before confirming the identity of the other, following the naval combat precedent.

He commanded, “Lower the dinghies into the sea, send eight marines over for inspection.

If something seems amiss, wave the white flag, and we will come to your rescue as quickly as possible.”

Following Colonel Fitzroy’s command, several marines, led by two officers, jumped onto the dinghies tied to the side of the ship.

Driven by the winch, the dinghies gradually descended, their ropes slowly lowering them until they settled smoothly onto the sea surface.

Arthur stood at the bow of the ship, inhaling the refreshing sea breeze, yet he couldn’t shake off a persistent scent of blood in his nostrils.

Agares was standing right next to him when he raised his right arm, and an ethereal red-eyed raven immediately flew down to perch on his forearm.

Agares leaned his ear towards the raven’s beak, nodding continuously as he listened to the raven’s report.

“Hmm… mhmm… well done, my little darling.”

The Red Devil pulled out a small colored ball from his pocket, fed it to the raven, and as he stroked its head, smiled and said, “This is your reward.”

Seeing this, Arthur, with a pipe in his mouth, calmly said, “You’re quite generous!”

The Red Devil grinned, “Of course, do you think I’m like you, Arthur?

I am always generous to those who work earnestly, whereas you do not spare a penny for diligent devils.

How about it, want to make a deal?

Ten souls in exchange for one piece of information.”

“Information bought for a single soul sold for tenfold profit.

Agares, you truly are better at business than the Jews.”

Agares snorted dismissively, “Arthur, that’s an understatement!

Back then, Judas sold Jesus for thirty silver coins—I wouldn’t bargain that low!

For a devil, the life of a prophet is worth far more than thirty silver coins!”

“Is that so?” Arthur asked.

“What about my life then?”

“Oh, my dear Arthur.”

The Red Devil rubbed his hands together and chuckled, “That question touches on my trade secrets.

Although I can’t answer that, I can tell you, the information priced at ten souls can save more than ten lives.”

“Is that so?”

Arthur pondered over Agares’s words until he was sure he was using a declarative sentence, then replied, “It seems a devil will strike it rich today.”

The Red Devil smiled, “Arthur, listen to you talk.

Our dealings are fair; Professor Agares deceives neither the young nor the old.”

Arthur remained silent, merely extending his hand to press a palm print onto the contract that Agares had conjured.

Almost in an instant, his brows unfurled then furrowed, as the scene of Fred conversing with someone else flashed through his mind.

He quickly took off his pipe, cursing under his breath, “Damn, Fred’s really doing big business!

Not only trading indentured servants to North America, but also getting involved with the Barbary Pirates who specialize in shipping white slaves to the Ottoman Turkish Empire!”

The Red Devil floated beside him, covering his mouth with a laugh, “But how do you plan to convince Colonel Fitzroy to believe you?

You can’t tell him that you know about the Barbary Pirates because you made a deal with the Devil, can you?”

“Convince?

Why should I convince him?”

“Then what are you planning to do?

Wait for the enemy to attack first?”

Arthur did not speak, he just went to the cannon mounted at the bow, smiled at the gunner, and asked, “Is the cannon loaded?”

The gunner was taken aback by his question, “Of course.”

Arthur nodded expressionlessly, then pointed to the sky and shouted, “My God!

Look, is that God?”

The gunner, tricked by him, looked up, and Arthur took the opportunity to press his lit pipe against the cannon’s fuse.

When the gunner turned back, he scratched his head in confusion and asked, “Sir, where is God?”

Arthur didn’t reply, he just started the countdown.

“Three, two, one…”

A loud bang was heard as the cannon fired into the sky, the cannonball swiftly flew out of the barrel, but due to the distance being too great, it eventually fell short, splashing into the sea not far from the Black Thorn.

White smoke enveloped the bow, and the gunner, startled by the commotion, took a long while to realize what had happened.

He couldn’t help but exclaim angrily, “Are you mad?

The Captain hasn’t given the order, why would you do such a thing?”

Arthur, hands in his pockets, shook his head, “I told you, it wasn’t me, it was God.”

Following that, he walked towards Colonel Fitzroy.

Colonel Fitzroy, too, was startled by the sudden cannon fire.

As he walked towards the bow, he cursed, “Which son of a bitch fired the cannon?

I’ll skin him alive!”

Arthur stepped forward, extending the folded monocular telescope, and placed it in front of Colonel Fitzroy, “Colonel, sir, don’t be in a hurry to get angry, have a look at this, what is it?”

In the view of the telescope, two flags were slowly being raised on two ships.

One was a skull pirate flag painted on a blood-red background with a silver-white arm emblem.

The other was a triangular blood-red Saint George’s flag.

As a sailor who had lived on a ship for over twenty years, Colonel Fitzroy of course understood what these two flags meant.

The former symbolized that the Barbary Pirates would slaughter everyone in this place.

The latter represented that the British pirates would fight to the death.

“Son of a bitch!”

Colonel Fitzroy threw his bicorn hat to the ground, his cheeks flushing red, whether from excitement or anger was unclear.

“Damn, actually caught two big fish!

All hands, turn the ship, align the cannons!”

Meanwhile, on the Black Thorn, Fred was also observing the Beagle with a telescope.

He furiously threw the telescope down and cursed loudly, “How did they know we had issues?

Pull us closer, I want to slaughter those idiots!”

However, before he could finish speaking, the sound of gunfire erupted over the sea.

“TAKE COVER!”

The first mate’s voice penetrated the entirety of the Black Thorn, but before he could finish his sentence, four cannonballs had already whistled their way onto the hull of the Black Thorn.

One cannonball penetrated the prow, another broke the mast, and two more directly claimed the lives of three unfortunate souls.

“Damn!” Fred spat, “If the army artillery had been this accurate back in the day, Waterloo wouldn’t have been so tough!”

He roared, “What are you waiting for?

Return fire!”

But despite Fred’s bellowing, the first mate had no intention of following his suggestion.

The Black Thorn, though an armed merchant ship, was only fitted with two eight-pound cannons, which were not yet within range at that moment.

As for the several dozen muskets onboard, firing them at this distance would only serve to boost morale.

He wanted to order to close the distance, but soon realized, after sailing a while, that the Black Thorn was in a downwind position, trying to approach the Beagle traveling at a speed of twelve knots was like a fool’s errand.

At this moment, the choice to advance or retreat was almost entirely in the hands of the Beagle.

The Black Thorn was at a loss, but the experienced Barbary Pirates quickly came up with an idea.

They swiftly moved away from the Black Thorn, planning to circle around to the front of the less defended Beagle for a counterattack.

But the veteran Royal Navy would naturally not let them have their way; almost at the same moment the Barbary Pirates left, Colonel Fitzroy ordered a swift approach to the Black Thorn.

Seeing this, Fred was overjoyed, he commanded, “Quick, turn around, let’s have a head-on collision!”

The first mate, hearing this, grimaced, but couldn’t retort.

They were in a downwind position, and even if they were to ram, it would be the Beagle colliding with the Black Thorn, there was no such thing as a head-on collision.

Yet, he still ordered to open fire as soon as the Beagle entered range.

“Fire!”

With a bang, a cannonball hit the Beagle’s waterline but only left a dent in the hull reinforced with copper plates.

However, despite not taking much damage, the gunners on the Beagle weren’t inclined to indulge Fred’s temper.

“FIRE!”

Bang, bang, bang, bang!

This was the second round of cannon fire within three and a half minutes.

To avoid sinking the Black Thorn, the gunners chose their points of impact very carefully, targeting either the mast or the sails.

Their focus wasn’t on killing, but on trying to incapacitate the Black Thorn’s ability to flee.

Just as Admiral Nelson famously said, ‘For the Royal Navy, capturing eleven ships out of twelve is not a victory.’

Just when Fred thought the bombardment was over and he could finally catch a break, his nose suddenly detected a thick smell of saltpeter.

Before he could figure out what was happening, he saw countless white glows lighting up the Beagle’s deck, followed by piercing screeches over the sea.

Fred’s pupils constricted; he recognized these devices because the Army had used them to attack Napoleon at Waterloo.

He remembered that back then, the infantry had used only a few hundred of these to hold off several charges by Napoleon’s elite Old Guard.

Congreve rockets!

Fred didn’t know their scholarly name, this uneducated cavalryman usually preferred to call them ‘Death’s Low Whimper.’

Almost in an instant, the Black Thorn was ablaze, with burned sailors rolling all over the deck and explosions intermittently ringing in his ears.

Besides the lingering smell of panic and fear, the air was also thick with the aroma of well-cooked flesh.

Serpentine flames, intermittent screams, blood deep enough to over the soles of shoes, and black charred bodies emitting white smoke.

Looking at the scene before him, Fred wondered if it was because he had inhaled too much smoke, but he felt as if he had returned to that day fifteen years ago.

The June 18th that had cost him two fingers and one toe.

Suddenly, the body of the Black Thorn trembled violently amidst the frightened shouts of the first mate.

Before Fred’s eyes, three gangplanks were set up.

On these gangplanks, about a dozen marines with swords in their mouths were charging towards the deck of the Black Thorn.

On the gangplank directly in front of him stood a young man with black hair, a sword in his mouth.

He leaped off the gangplank, thrusting his sword through the jaw of a Black Thorn sailor rushing towards him.

With another step, he dodged a chop from the left, stepped on the shinbone of the adjacent enemy, and smoothly drove his longsword up through the man’s throat, pushing it through the back of his head with a slight effort.

Having just claimed a life, he then twisted his body, caught a curved saber aimed at him with his gloved left hand, and with a forward dive, thrust his blade into his enemy’s heart.

Watching this, Fred suddenly felt his long-stagnant blood begin to boil.

Although he had occasionally killed a few people over the years, those had been one-sided slaughters that hardly piqued his interest.

Apart from Wilcox, who was a bit harder to kill, he hadn’t encountered such a high-level opponent for a long time.

“There are such capable people in the Royal Navy?” he widened his eyes and grinned, “Mediterranean fighting style, Apennine swordsmanship, the Fiore Style?”