Wind Rises in North America 1625

Chapter 565 Blockade (Part Two)

January 18, 1643, in the southern waters of Chile.

The sky was leaden gray, with low-hanging clouds that seemed within reach. The occasional ray of sunlight weakly pierced the dark blue sea, creating a cold, shimmering effect.

The wind was still biting, but compared to the howling westerly winds in the Strait of Magellan that could tear sails apart, it was as gentle as a sigh.

The massive fleet of sixteen Spanish warships, like a group of wounded giants, struggled in this unfamiliar sea, dragging their weary bodies.

On the bridge of the flagship "Verax", fleet commander Vice Admiral Don Francisco de Ovinilla leaned on the salt-frost-covered railing and took a deep breath of the cold air, which was no longer filled with the aura of death.

A look of relieved exhaustion finally appeared on his face, which was etched with wrinkles from the sea breeze and anxiety.

We are not far from the Viceroyalty of Peru, and the entire fleet will soon be able to rest and replenish.

"General, the wind is stable, heading northwest. At this speed, we should be able to see the lighthouse in Compsejón within two days." The young adjutant, Major Juan Martinez, walked up to him, his voice hoarse, his eyes sunken, and his once crisp uniform now hanging loosely on his body, covered in stains.

Ovinila didn't turn around, but simply nodded as she gazed at the seemingly endless, broken coastline ahead.

The southern coastline of Chile appears particularly desolate here, with steep cliffs plunging into the sea, and the snow-capped peaks of the Andes Mountains appearing and disappearing in the clouds in the distance.

"Two days? Oh... May the Holy Mother protect us and prevent any further accidents in the next two days." His voice was low and hoarse, as if each word had taken a great deal of effort.

He turned around, his gaze sweeping across the flagship's deck.

The once vibrant royal coat of arms and royal flags are now tattered and torn by the storms of the Strait, hanging wetly from the masts.

The mooring lines snaked across the deck like tangled water snakes, and the sailors—oh, if they could still be called sailors—huddled haphazardly in sheltered corners, wrapped in damp, moldy blankets, like soulless shells.

Their faces were etched with exhaustion, malnutrition, and a near-numb fear; their eyes were vacant, and they would only mechanically move when an officer reprimanded them.

"How is the Santa Clara?" Ovinella asked, noticing that a large galleon was significantly slower than the formation.

Martinez sighed. "Their mainmast was severely damaged in the strait, and the shipwrights can only make temporary repairs. Moreover... there's a serious outbreak of scurvy on board, and more than twenty sailors are already unable to work."

Ovinila nodded silently.

This is the true state of his once mighty fleet, which was in high spirits in Havana and determined to wipe out the "Xinhua heretics."

Looking back on the first half of the voyage, it was long and arduous, far exceeding his initial expectations.

The ambitions we had when we set sail from Havana on October 20th last year have long been worn away by the waves of the Atlantic Ocean and the treacherous Strait of Magellan.

At that time, when the fleet departed from port, banners fluttered, seventeen warships stood in neat formation, and the soldiers and sailors were in high spirits, all harboring the belief of making meritorious contributions and defending the dignity of the Kingdom of Spain, and resolutely embarked on this journey.

The Cuban governor and a group of colonial officials personally came to the dock to see them off and wish them a successful start.

However, reality is a series of nightmares.

After a brief rest stop at the port of Cumana in Venezuela, the fleet continued south along the Brazilian coast, and the long voyage began to wear down the fleet's morale.

When Ovinilla encountered the three Dutch West India Company armed ships fleeing like startled rabbits in the waters off northeastern Brazil, he did not even order a pursuit.

In the past, he would never have let these Dutch heretics go.

But now, the Portuguese rebellion has the Spanish royal family in a bind, and they are happy to see the Dutch and Portuguese at each other's throats on the hot land of Brazil.

By the time the fleet reached Buenos Aires at the mouth of the Río de la Plata, it had been sailing for more than fifty days.

That southernmost colonial outpost of the Spanish Empire was pitifully small, barely able to accommodate two warships docking.

Most of the crew members could only crammed into the swaying cabins like sardines, anxiously waiting for their turn to go ashore for a few short days to rest.

The so-called "rest and recuperation" was more like a chaotic destruction.

After nearly two months of being cooped up, the soldiers and sailors turned the small town with just over a thousand residents into a place to vent their desires.

Theft, brawls, and even more serious robberies and other crimes were rampant, and Ovinila had to resort to strict military law to deal with a few of the most troublemakers in order to barely maintain order.

Worse still, this impoverished outpost was simply unable to provide sufficient supplies for the massive fleet; fresh vegetables and fruits remained a luxury.

Ten days later, they left Buenos Aires and continued south.

During the voyage towards the entrance to the Strait of Magellan, an unease began to permeate the air.

The desolate and arid Patagonian coast plunges one into a state of isolation, with only the sounds of the wind and waves washing over the soul, evoking a sense of exile at the ends of the earth.

When the fleet plunged into the narrow waterway connecting the two oceans—the Strait of Magellan—on December 15th, it was as if the gates of hell had been opened.

There is no God in the strait, only roaring westerly winds, endless rain and snow, and a cold that can freeze the soul.

The strong headwinds made it difficult for the boats to move, and sailing against the wind in the narrow and winding waterways was like committing suicide time and time again.

Like a swarm of headless flies, they groped their way through thick fog and blizzards, relying on the crude, error-ridden nautical charts left by Magellan and many other navigators more than a hundred years ago, and the ancient method of the boatswain constantly using a plumb bob to measure the depth, proceeding cautiously.

The depth sounder kept calling out the water depth, and every time the plumb bob was thrown down, it was terrifying, for fear that the next moment they would touch the reef hidden underwater.

The strait is as winding as a maze, and the nautical chart left by Magellan more than a century ago is so rough that it's almost a joke, with many places being completely "blank" traps.

Cold and dampness are insidious demons that seep into every crevice. A thin layer of ice always forms on the deck, and the damp, chilling air penetrates even the thickest wool coat, piercing straight to the bone.

The ropes were frozen solid, like iron rods. The sailors' hands were covered in frostbite and cracks when they worked on them, and blood often stained the ropes red.

Unfortunately, the long sea voyage allowed the shadow of scurvy to spread, and more and more soldiers suffered from bleeding gums, loose teeth, and joint pain.

Even more terrifying was the unpredictable current. In narrow places, the water flowed as swiftly as a waterfall. Several times, the warships were swept away by the out-of-control current and nearly crashed into the jagged cliffs on both sides.

The supply ship "Santa Catarina" was not so lucky. On a stormy night, a sudden crosswind and a turbulent current tossed the bulky vessel like a toy toward a rocky shore.

The tremendous impact and the mournful sound of wood shattering were instantly swallowed up by the roar of the storm.

Ovinella stood on the violently rocking deck, watching helplessly as the ship and its more than seventy crew members disappeared without a trace into the dark waves, without even a flicker of a signal for help.

At that moment, he felt his heart sink to the bottom of the icy sea.

The two sides of the Taiwan Strait are desolate, primitive, and awe-inspiring lands, as if forgotten by God.

Occasionally, one can see firelight on the shore, or figures paddling canoes—the Tverche people, described as “giants.”

Although no conflict occurred between the two sides, the feeling of being surrounded by the unknown and danger kept everyone on edge, sleep became a luxury, and fear festered in every corner of the cabin.

When the fleet finally managed to sail out of the western entrance of the strait and see the relatively open Pacific Ocean, the entire fleet was severely weakened.

Apart from the loss of one supply ship, almost every ship was damaged to varying degrees, with broken planks, broken masts, and damaged rigging.

"General, would you like to have breakfast now?" Major Martinez's voice pulled Ovinella back to reality from her painful memories.

Ovinella waved his hand, already feeling nauseous at the thought of the food on board. "Have you taken stock of how many people we've lost?" he asked, his voice weary.

"The Santa Catalina has lost 72 men. In addition... other ships have reported more than 60 casualties due to illness, accidental falls overboard, and... disciplinary actions." Martinez's voice was somewhat somber. "And at least 240 men are seriously ill and unable to perform normal duties."

Ovinila remained silent for a moment.

This means that, before even meeting the new Chinese, his fleet had already suffered more than one-tenth of its non-combat casualties, and morale was low, the officers and men were exhausted, and some ships needed major repairs.

He turned around, his gaze sweeping across the deck once more.

The sailors carried out navigational operations listlessly, their movements were somewhat sluggish, and their eyes were vacant and lifeless.

Several mildly ill patients, barely managing to keep going, huddled in a sheltered corner, wrapped in dirty blankets, coughing incessantly.

Is this the fleet he used to carry out the great mission of the empire?
A feeling of powerlessness came over me.

Ten days ago, when they docked at that desolate little port called Castro, the situation had not improved.

The colonial outpost located on the west side of Chiloé Island had only a mere 180 residents and was extremely poor in resources.

They gave up everything they had, but could only provide some fresh water, a small amount of locally gathered fruit, and a dozen or so thin goats.

For a struggling fleet, it was a drop in the ocean.

The shipwrights could only carry out the most urgent repairs on the most severely damaged ships; a complete overhaul would have to wait until the port of Compseccion.

"Tell all captains to maintain formation and strengthen lookout. The closer we get to our destination, the less we can afford to relax," Ovinella ordered, though he knew that in the current situation, the order would be much harder to execute.

His only hope now is to reach Compseccion port as soon as possible so that his soldiers can go ashore to rest, his ships can be repaired, and he can get fresh supplies...

Then, restore the fleet to a semblance of combat capability.

The fleet continued its slow northward journey along the Chilean coast until it encountered the navy of the "Xinhua Heretics".

It was summer in the Southern Hemisphere, but the latitude was still high, so the temperature was cool, even a bit cold.

The distant Andes Mountains, their peaks still covered in snow, serve as a stark reminder of the harshness of this land.

At approximately 9:20 a.m., as the fleet passed through the waters west of Santa Maria Island, a shout suddenly came from the ship's lookout tower: "Ships spotted ahead on port! Two!... No flags flying!"

This shout was like a pebble thrown into still water, causing a slight ripple in the weary fleet.

Ovinila immediately raised his monocular telescope.

Sure enough, about a mile to the left front, there were two long and slender ships.

Their boats have a unique shape, unlike the common Spanish galleons or caravels, with smoother lines and somewhat unconventional sails.

The opposing ships had obviously spotted their massive fleet as well, and immediately adjusted their sails, heading north at an astonishing speed.

"Pirates? Or..." Major Martinez frowned.

A flicker of doubt crossed Ovinella's mind, but exhaustion and the relaxation of imminent arrival made him unwilling to think about it further.

“They were probably privateers from some country. They saw how big we were and ran away.” He waved his hand. “Just send the ‘San Pedro’ and the ‘Fast’ forward to scout and drive them away. The main fleet should maintain its current course and speed.”

Two Spanish light warships billowed their sails, broke away from the formation, and gave chase.

Strangely, the two unidentified ships, which could have easily outrun their pursuers with their speed, seemed to maintain a leisurely distance, and even occasionally turned around to fire a few cannon shots far behind them in a teasing manner.

The shells landed far from the Spanish warships, creating small plumes of water.

"What are they doing? Are they provoking us?" Martinez asked, puzzled.

A bad feeling suddenly arose in Ovinella's heart.

This action is illogical; firing at such a long distance would make it impossible to harm any target.

Are they using this to embolden themselves, or is it an open provocation?

However, what happened next instantly turned his unease into vigilance.

Every half hour or so, the two ships would launch a specially made signal flare into the sky—well, a kind of firework they had never seen before, capable of emitting bright light and thick smoke even during the day.

Fireworks exploded in the air, clearly visible even from a great distance.

"They're sending a message!...Or leading the way!" Ovinella's face suddenly turned serious, and he gripped the railing tightly. "Signal! Order the 'San Pedro' and 'Quick' to immediately cease pursuit and return to their unit!"

"All fleets, put on combat readiness!"

The order was issued a little late.

Just as the signalman was frantically waving flags, the two Spanish warships pursuing them ahead also issued urgent warning signals and began firing their bow guns into the air as a warning.

Their flag signals conveyed a message that sent chills down the spines of all Spaniards.

"An unidentified fleet has been spotted ahead! ...A massive fleet is approaching!"

Ovinila's heart skipped a beat, and he immediately raised his binoculars, straining to look north.

At first, there was only a blurry expanse where the sea and sky met.

But soon, tiny black dots began to appear, first three or five, then seven or eight, then a dozen or so... They grew rapidly, as if they were growing out of the sea, and became clearly visible.

Oh God, that's a huge fleet!

With sails like clouds and a well-organized formation, the ships were sailing towards us with an unstoppable momentum.

Unfamiliar flags slowly rose from the masts of those ships, fluttering in the Chilean summer sea breeze.

The most eye-catching one was a red flag, which appeared to be decorated with a five-pointed star pattern.

The binoculars in his hand fell onto the deck with a clatter.

His face, sallow from exhaustion and malnutrition, instantly lost all color, leaving only endless terror and disbelief.

That was definitely not a pirate.

It was certainly not the fleet of any European country he knew.

They are new Chinese!

After a long and arduous sea voyage, overcoming countless difficulties, they finally reached the Pacific Ocean and were about to arrive at the port of Compseccion. Instead of the warm lights of a supply port, they were greeted by…

A battle!
(End of this chapter)