Chapter 553 - 59: Captives (Part 2)
Havier was not far away, and could clearly see that the man’s calf seemed to have been pierced by a bullet, with fresh blood oozing out, making his heart chill—
To hit a moving person’s leg accurately from such a distance not only demonstrated the shooter’s excellent marksmanship, but also showed that the gun’s range and accuracy far surpassed their matchlock guns.
To be honest, after drifting at sea for so many years, Havier had seen all kinds of guns and crossbows, but he had never seen a weapon like this one.
This gun even exceeded the scope of his imagination.
What kind of people could build such a weapon? The British Royal Family? The Dutch? Or the Portuguese?
One guess after another emerged in Havier’s mind, only to be successively rejected by him.
Inwardly cursing the natives for causing trouble and bringing bad luck to himself.
Faced with such a change, Havier could not think of any coping strategy for the time being.
He was very aware that he was now within the enemy’s range, maybe the gun was aimed right at his head.
Fortunately, the development of the situation was not particularly bad, the enemy did not directly take their lives, but attacked non-critical parts, which showed that at least they could stay alive for a while.
There is a similar saying in the Spaniards’ proverb: "As long as the green hills are preserved, there will be no shortage of firewood."
Havier was not being a sailor for some foolish spirit of adventure; he embarked on this path for wealth, power, and women.
Most of the time, his thinking was the same as when he was a hunter in his hometown.
He never regarded his companions as people with equal status as him, just like now—
The sailor who was shot was the prey he deliberately released to test the enemy’s methods.
At this moment, the enemy showed the superiority of their weapon performance, Havier was both terrified and couldn’t think of a solution, yet he didn’t feel any guilt.
...
When the Spanish sailors fell into chaos, not daring to flee anymore, Sunday had already descended from the tree, and was walking towards the sailors with a gun.
A distance of two hundred meters was not considered far.
After being warned a second time, the sailors all tightened mentally, as Sunday’s steps broke through the tree branches and the sound of stepping on dead leaves quickly came to their ears.
They quickly responded, realizing that the footsteps and gunshots came from the same direction.
Some were angry because of the wounded companion, some feared this mysterious enemy, and some were puzzled by the sparse footsteps, because it was obvious more than one person had fired just now.
Everyone carried different thoughts, except for one who only wanted to flee, and that was Lisoben.
He knew very well that his previous behavior of leading the tribe warriors to attack had already provoked those outsiders.
Now the outsiders were chasing relentlessly, surely wanting his life.
In this attack, even a blind person could see that the Spaniards were at a complete disadvantage, and were knocked down without even seeing the enemy’s face.
Lisoben wasn’t foolish, he knew the Spaniards couldn’t protect him anymore, and that little bit of pathetic security he’d gained was now dissipated.
In that case, it was better to keep running, flee into the dense forest, find a deserted place, and survive somehow.
Lisoben grew up in a tribe, and although under the protection of his father and favored by the old Priest, he rarely engaged in the physical labor that ordinary members had to do, such as lighting fires, gathering or fishing.
Yet, not having eaten pork doesn’t mean he hasn’t seen a pig run; years of watching, he had already mastered the essentials of these tasks, and now, even without anyone’s help, he was confident he could survive alone in the forest.
Worried about being hit by that terrifying weapon from afar, Lisoben cautiously glanced at the Spaniards, then crouched down like a turtle and crawled into the bushes.
However, to his surprise, before he could squeeze into the dense vegetation, the Spaniard’s gun held against his spine.
"Get out!"
Havier dared not entirely stand up, hunching down just like him.
He tightly gripped the matchlock gun in his hands, eager to use it as a Long Spear and thrust it directly into the native’s body—
Up to this point, he still thought it was the natives who caused them trouble, never realizing that Sunday’s purpose in landing on the island was precisely about them, the Spaniards.
...
Having been acquainted with the Spaniards for a few years, Lisoben may not have spoken Spanish, but he was not unfamiliar with most of the common everyday words.
Seeing that he had been targeted and there was no chance of sneaking away, he could only stick his butt out and back out of the bushes, escorted by Havier to the center of the crowd, like a dog sprawled on the ground.
...
Over here, the Spaniards were neither able to advance nor retreat, while over there, Sunday’s footsteps gradually approached.
The steady rhythm of footsteps was like heavy drumbeats, striking at the sailors’ hearts.
They knew they were within the opponent’s range, life and death entirely in the opponent’s hands, expressions gloomy, both terrified and confused, gathering together around Lisoben.
Before long, Sunday, dressed in camouflage, holding a long gun, emerged from the woodland to a spot less than 10 meters away from them.
Only then did the Spaniards get to see the enemy’s true face.
When Sunday was rescued by Chen Zhou, he was still a malnourished child who had not fully grown, his skin tanned by the sun to a dark shade, looking like a thin, hairless monkey.
After staying on the island for a few years, thanks to a rich diet of balanced nutrition and ample exercise, he was now a different person.
Chen Zhou estimated that Sunday’s height had now reached close to 172 cm, which could be considered tall in the 17th century.
At the same time, Sunday’s skin had also become much fairer, and since he was in charge of military affairs on the island, he exuded a heroic aura.
Upon first seeing Sunday, Havier and others scanned this person’s peculiar attire from top to bottom before examining Sunday’s face.
Despite these Spaniards having long-term contact with natives, none of them thought Sunday was a native, only assuming he was a special yellow-skinned race—
They were more willing to believe in the existence of nations with technological levels far beyond theirs than to believe natives had forced them into this predicament.
...
"Can you understand what I’m saying?"
Facing eight Spanish sailors, Sunday showed no sign of fear, raising his voice to ask.
Upon hearing the enemy speak in native language, the sailors’ faces were full of surprise, obviously feeling extremely unexpected.
They really wanted to answer Sunday’s question, but due to their inherent arrogance, although they had lived on the island for many years, not one of them understood the native language.
Being able to lower themselves to understand the natives’ body language was already a tremendous favor in their eyes, self-proclaimed from the Civilized World, they would never stoop to learn a backward language or understand a backward culture.
...
The awkward silence lasted about ten seconds, and Lisoben, lying on the ground, finally summoned the courage to shout to Sunday.
"I can understand what you’re saying!
I beg you, don’t let them kill me, I can talk, I can!"
While shouting, he tried to break free from Havier’s gun muzzle, looking hopefully at Sunday.
At this moment, Lisoben could never have imagined that the man who could decide his life and death ahead was once a child from a small tribe he had wiped out, even brought to a deserted island by the old Priest he revered, almost cooked and eaten.
...
Sunday looked around and saw the Spaniards had no reaction, reckoning that the only one who could communicate with him now was this native he hated so much, he reluctantly nodded.
"Alright, you go and collect their weapons, then untie their belts and bind their hands."
Lifting the gun muzzle, partially aiming at the sailors, Sunday said.
Upon hearing this, Lisoben had a face full of difficulty—
He couldn’t afford to offend the outsiders, could he well offend the Spaniards?
But since he had just emerged to speak, there was no room for him to renege, otherwise, he would offend both sides.
As the Tribe Leader, when had he ever been subject to such exclusion, had it not been for his life being in others’ hands, based on his temper, he would have fought or cursed long ago.
Passively resigning to the situation being under other’s roofs.
Even knowing he would offend the Spaniards, he could only grit his teeth and grab at the matchlock guns held by the sailors.