An explosive shell tore through the deck of one British galleon with a shriek of splintering wood, smashed through the planking, and plunged deep into the hold below.
For one suspended heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the world inside that compartment turned into fire.
The detonation erupted with a thunderous roar that shook the entire hull. Flame burst outward in a violent bloom. Iron fragments, jagged shards of casing, and splinters of shattered timber scythed through the confined space with merciless efficiency.
British sailors fought with the kind of reckless courage that had carried their nation across oceans, but courage does not deflect shrapnel.
The explosion drowned out their battle cries and replaced them with screams.
Men were hurled against bulkheads. Others were cut down where they stood. In that cramped lower deck, there was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. When the smoke began to thin, no one in that compartment remained standing.
Above, chaos rippled outward.
Meanwhile, cannonballs fired by John Weddell's fleet struck the hull of the Wanli Sunshine with solid force.
And then… nothing.
Instead of splintering wood or cracking beams, the iron shot merely left shallow dents upon the reinforced surface before ricocheting away. Some bounced off at sharp angles and skipped across the water. Others plunged into the sea with heavy splashes, having achieved nothing.
"Bloody hell!" John Weddell stared in disbelief. "What kind of ship is that?"
Beside him, the Portuguese translator trembled visibly. His face had gone pale.
"A treasure ship," the man stammered. "It must be one of the legendary treasure ships. The secret art of the mysterious Eastern empire."
Weddell rounded on him furiously. "Secret art? Don't you Portuguese know anything about science?"
The translator snapped back despite his fear. "Then you tell me what science this is!"
Weddell opened his mouth to answer.
Nothing came.
His eyes drifted back to the impossible vessel cutting through smoke and flame, impervious to his broadsides.
"Is it…" he muttered, voice thinning, "the power of a god?"
The translator bristled. "Science? And you dare say that word?"
Their argument dissolved into the roar of artillery.
The cannons of Gao Family Village had not paused.
Volley followed volley in ruthless rhythm. High explosive shells and solid shot alternated with calculated precision. Explosive rounds shredded enemy personnel, ripping open decks and scattering bodies. Solid shot hammered hulls, widening breaches, weakening structural integrity, and ensuring that damage accumulated beyond repair.
Under that relentless storm, John Weddell's fleet deteriorated rapidly.
Rigging sagged. Masts groaned. Planking split open like cracked bone. Blood stained the decks.
"Admiral!" one officer shouted over the din. "If we continue like this, we are finished!"
"We board them!" another cried desperately.
"Board?" came the answer. "They have twelve ships. We have five. We would be swallowed the moment we try."
The suggestion hung in the air, heavy and bitter.
"Then we withdraw…" Weddell said at last, forcing the words out through clenched teeth.
It was the only rational choice left.
But reason had arrived too late.
The instant Weddell signaled retreat and ordered his helm to turn, the opposing commanders reacted.
On Wanli Sunshine, Shi Lang raised his arm sharply.
"Full speed ahead. Cut off their retreat."
On Xiaobai No. 3, Zheng Sen gave the same command almost simultaneously.
"Advance. Block their escape routes."
The Wanli Sunshine responded immediately. As an electric vessel, its acceleration required nothing more than adjustment of control. The hull surged forward with sudden, decisive speed.
On Xiaobai No. 3, stokers below deck shoveled coal into the boilers with frantic intensity. The furnace glowed hotter. Steam pressure climbed. From the chimney, thick black smoke billowed skyward in a heavy plume. The great steam whistle released a long, mournful wail that rolled across the river like a declaration of pursuit.
Its paddlewheels churned faster, biting into the water.
The two vessels surged ahead in coordinated movement, angling across the British line and sealing the escape corridor with mechanical inevitability.
"Fire!"
"Open fire!"
The exchange resumed with savage intensity.
British cannonballs continued to strike the Wanli Sunshine only to bounce away in futility. One lucky shot slammed into the side of Xiaobai No. 3, punching a significant hole through its wooden plating, sending splinters flying and forcing damage crews into immediate action.
But that single success did not shift the tide.
Explosive shells from Gao Family Village continued to tear through British decks. Every direct hit meant death. Every blast shredded men who had been shouting battle cries only moments earlier.
Under such a one sided assault, even soldiers of a rising empire felt their resolve fracture.
Panic began to spread.
"There's no way out!"
"They've blocked the front and sealed the rear!"
"If we keep fighting, we all die!"
"Surrender. We must surrender. If we submit, perhaps diplomacy will spare us."
Fear does what cannon fire alone sometimes cannot.
Soon, a white flag rose above John Weddell's battered flagship.
The thunder of guns gradually ceased.
Smoke drifted slowly over the Pearl River.
An hour later.
Humen Fortress.
Kai Long of the Ministry of Rites' Bureau of Receptions sat in the central chair, posture composed, expression stern but controlled. Civil officials flanked him. Military officers stood nearby. Zheng Zhilong, Shi Lang, and Zheng Sen stood among them beside the Regional Commander of Guangdong, observing the formal pronouncement.
Before them stood John Weddell, no longer proud, no longer mocking.
Kai Long spoke with measured authority.
"On behalf of the Great Ming imperial court, I order you, the Red Haired Barbarians, to compensate our nation for the losses inflicted during this conflict. You will immediately withdraw from the waters of the Great Ming and you are forbidden from returning."
When he had first arrived, Weddell had carried himself with unmistakable arrogance.
Now he lowered his head.
"I understand," he said quietly. "We will return thirty five cannons, thirty pigs, and compensate your nation with twenty eight thousand silver yuan."
Kai Long gave a brief nod.
"Very well."
Weddell no longer had freedom of action. Arrangements for payment would require contacting a merchant named Paul, who would in turn reach out to the East India Company to secure the funds. The process would take time. Perhaps one month. Perhaps two.
Until then, he would remain in custody.
Escorted by soldiers, he was led away and locked inside a cell in Guangzhou.
Days passed in monotony.
Then one afternoon, he heard voices outside his door. Chinese voices. He could not understand a word.
The door creaked open.
Two middle aged men entered, followed by two youths.
The guards withdrew to a distant corner, clearly instructed not to listen.
The two older men were Zheng Zhilong and Zheng Zhihu.
The two youths were Shi Lang and Zheng Sen.
They sat down opposite John Weddell.
He felt unease settle in his chest.
What did they want?
Zheng Zhilong spoke first, in fluent Dutch.
"Do you understand Dutch?"
Weddell's heart skipped.
"I do."
"Good," Zheng Zhilong said calmly. "Let us speak in Dutch. My English is limited."
Limited.
The understatement irritated Weddell, because the man's accent and phrasing were already better than many traders he had encountered.
He had believed this Eastern empire stagnant and closed.
Yet here sat a commander fluent in European tongues.
"The court wishes you gone," Zheng Zhilong continued. "They forbid the British from trading here again."
Weddell nodded gloomily. "So I have been told."
Zheng Zhilong leaned forward slightly.
"However, I believe the court's approach is shortsighted."
Weddell blinked.
"Shortsighted?"
"Trade benefits all parties," Zheng Zhilong said evenly.
For a moment, Weddell wondered if this was mockery.
He had attacked Humen Fortress precisely because Portuguese control of Macau prevented him from trading freely. He had assumed that losing this battle meant the end of any commercial ambitions.
Yet here he was, a prisoner, and someone was proposing trade.
The situation felt absurd.
Zheng Zhilong chuckled softly and gestured to the youth beside him.
"Little Sen. You speak."
Zheng Sen stepped forward.
"Hello, John Weddell."
Weddell frowned at the sudden shift. "You replace him with a child?"
Zheng Sen met his gaze calmly.
"Though young, I hold the rank of Qianhu under the Coastal Regional Commander of the Great Ming."
Weddell stared.
"A thousand household commander?"
"Yes."
The boy smiled faintly.
"Now, let us discuss trade."