Weddell threw his head back and laughed, the sound sharp and brimming with contempt.
"You want me to pay reparations? And then politely withdraw?" he said, wiping at the corner of his eye as though the proposal had genuinely amused him. "Hahaha. What utter nonsense. Those are terms spoken by victors to the defeated. Tell me, can you not see with your own eyes who stands on the brink of victory?"
The man sent by Zheng Zhihu did not bother to argue.
He had been a pirate long before he wore anything resembling official colors, and in his experience, words were tools best used for deception or intimidation, not persuasion. When a blade could resolve a matter, talking only dulled the edge.
He let out a short, dismissive snort.
"If that is your answer," he said flatly, "then negotiations have failed. Prepare for war."
He turned immediately, vaulted back into his small dinghy with fluid ease, and pushed off. Within moments, the little boat was cutting across the water, carrying him away from the English flagship and back toward the Ming line.
Weddell watched him go, lips curling.
"These fellows," he scoffed, loud enough for the officers around him to hear, "lack strength in battle, yet carry themselves as if pride alone could float their ships."
Laughter rippled across the deck.
"Beyond their tattered pride," one officer added mockingly, "this decaying empire has nothing left."
They were still basking in that comfortable sense of superiority when the lookout's voice shifted in tone.
Sails.
On the horizon, behind Zheng Zhihu's junk, dark shapes began to rise one after another. At first they looked like shadows against the glare of the afternoon light. Then the silhouettes sharpened, multiplied, and resolved into masts.
One vessel.
Three.
Five.
More.
Within moments, over a dozen warships were visible, advancing in disciplined formation.
Weddell's gaze locked instinctively onto the largest among them.
The Wanli Sunshine.
It was enormous, stretching more than sixty meters from bow to stern, its hull towering above the waterline with an imposing solidity that made his own fifty meter flagship appear modest by comparison.
But what froze him was not merely the size.
There were no sails.
No banks of oars.
The masts stood bare.
Yet the vessel moved.
It advanced steadily, cutting cleanly through the current with a confidence that defied every rule of seamanship Weddell had learned since boyhood.
His face twisted in disbelief.
"Blast it all," he barked. "How is that ship moving?"
Before anyone could answer, another colossal silhouette emerged beside it.
Xiaobai No. 3.
Its hull matched the first in length and bulk, and like the Wanli Sunshine, it bore no sails and no visible oars. Instead, mounted on either flank were two massive paddlewheels, turning relentlessly, churning the river into froth.
The wheels bit into the water with mechanical rhythm, flinging white spray outward as the vessel surged forward without reliance on wind.
A chill passed through Weddell's spine.
"What in God's name is that?" he muttered. "Impossible…"
And then, as if to complete the formation, another familiar outline entered view.
Zheng Zhilong's flagship.
A captured Spanish galleon, broad beamed and heavy with guns, once flying Iberian colors, now repurposed under the Great Ming banner.
The situation rearranged itself in Weddell's mind with ruthless clarity.
He commanded three English three masted galleons and two light frigates.
Facing him were two massive unknown warships powered by unheard of means, a seasoned Spanish galleon under an experienced commander, and nine sturdy junk ships.
Numerically alone, the advantage had shifted.
"They rejected our terms!" Zheng Zhihu shouted across the narrowing water to Zheng Zhilong's flagship. "They say only victors dictate conditions."
Zheng Zhilong's reply carried no ornament.
"Then we fight."
He had once stood at Liaoluo Bay and faced eleven Dutch galleons.
He had broken them.
Three English galleons did not frighten him.
"Prepare for battle!"
Across his fleet, flags shifted and drums beat. Crews scrambled to stations. Powder was hauled. Wicks were trimmed. Cannon ports were thrown open.
Shi Lang, young but already sharp eyed and composed, returned to the helm of the Wanli Sunshine. The deck beneath his feet vibrated faintly with the pulse of its hidden machinery, a sensation that felt to him less like tremor and more like promise.
Zheng Sen climbed aboard Xiaobai No. 3, taking command with a boy's eagerness tempered by hard instruction. His eyes burned not with recklessness but with anticipation.
Almost simultaneously, both raised their arms.
"To battle!"
"To battle!"
Their voices rang out over the water.
Across from them, Weddell felt something tighten in his chest.
Since anchoring near Guangzhou, he had seen only scattered, aging vessels flying the Great Ming banner. He had assumed weakness. He had assumed hesitation. He had assumed he could posture his way into favorable terms.
Now he realized that by mocking negotiation, he had sealed the path ahead.
There would be no retreat into diplomacy.
Only gunfire.
"Prepare for combat!" he shouted. "Royal British sailors, stand ready. Hold until they are within range."
He never finished the sentence.
A thunderous explosion shattered the air.
The Wanli Sunshine fired.
The distance between fleets was still vast by conventional standards. Weddell's eyes widened as he watched the arc of iron streak across the sky.
A heartbeat later, a towering column of water erupted beside his flagship, drenching the deck in spray.
His jaw tightened.
"Cannons at that range?"
Another roar.
Another plume of water.
Then another.
The rifled cannons aboard the Wanli Sunshine and Xiaobai No. 3 spoke in disciplined succession. Their polished steel barrels flashed in the sunlight, recoiling smoothly with each discharge before being hauled back into position with efficient precision.
Solid iron shot screamed across the river.
At first, the aim wavered. A few rounds fell short. A few overshot. But the corrections came quickly.
Then came the crack of impact.
A cannonball slammed into the broadside of one English galleon, blasting a ragged hole through its planking. The breach sat above the waterline, but splinters tore across the deck, wounding men and shredding rigging.
Another shot smashed into a different vessel's deck, ripping apart timber and killing a sailor outright.
Weddell felt cold calculation replace disbelief.
"Close the distance," he ordered sharply. "Return fire."
The English ships adjusted formation and pressed forward.
Despite the shock of the opening barrage, British sailors did not panic. They moved with drilled discipline, hauling lines, trimming sails, compensating for damage with grim determination.
This was, after all, the early rise of Britain's maritime strength.
An ascendant power does not crumble at the first shock. Its men believe history favors them. They believe destiny carries their sails.
"We broke the Spanish Armada!" a sailor roared.
"The sea belongs to Britain!"
The cry spread, half memory, half defiance.
The five English ships surged ahead, closing the gap under relentless bombardment. Hulls splintered. Masts shuddered. Yet they advanced.
More iron struck them.
More holes opened.
Still they pushed forward until, at last, they entered the effective range of their smoothbore cannons.
"Fire!" Weddell bellowed.
Almost simultaneously, Zheng Zhilong gave the same order.
Now his fleet joined fully.
Twelve ships against five.
Broadsides thundered across the Pearl River in overlapping waves of flame and smoke.
But almost immediately, a disparity revealed itself.
The British gunners worked with clocklike discipline. Swab, load, ram, prime, fire. Their intervals were short. Their aim consistent. Even under incoming shot, their posture did not falter.
Among Zheng Zhilong's crews, courage existed in abundance, but training lagged. Some gunners hesitated when enemy iron screamed overhead. Some flinched at the impact of splinters. Reloading took longer. Shots drifted wide.
The difference in artillery doctrine was stark.
Fortunately, two vessels did not share that weakness.
Gao Family Village stood in its own rising era, fiercer even than Britain's.
If Britain was the sun at midmorning, climbing steadily, then Gao Family Village was the sun just breaking the horizon, radiant and unstoppable in its ascent.
On Wanli Sunshine and Xiaobai No. 3, commands rang out crisply.
"Adjust elevation."
"Correct two degrees port."
"Prepare next volley."
Their crews moved with relentless efficiency.
"Fire!"
More solid shot tore into English hulls, multiplying breaches, weakening structure.
Then, as the range tightened further, a new order cut through the din.
"They are close enough."
"Switch to explosive shells."
The next phase of battle was about to begin.