Chapter 2: Panic and Courage

“Englishmen are coming!”
“Enemy attack!”
“Run for your lives!”

Fearful shouts erupted one after another.

Most aboard the Lighthouse Guardian were Italians, kidnapped and coerced by Genoese mercenaries. The moment they spotted the English fleet, they hadn’t expected to be dragged into a war, and chaos instantly broke out.

Some panicked and ran wildly without direction.
Others were shoved and jostled.
Many accidentally fell into whirlpools and vanished without a trace.

Carlo, with his rich life experience before crossing over, knew all too well that in moments of panic, one must not lose composure.

He gripped Roberto’s hand tightly:
“Roberto, don’t panic. Even if the English fleet is fast, it will still take time to reach us. Since we’re forced into this war with no way to escape, let’s first find whatever we can to arm ourselves and protect our lives.”

Roberto nodded vigorously.

Yet, amid the confusion, the only things they could find were wooden barrel lids to use as shields. Roberto managed to find an axe and handed a dagger to Carlo.

The two hid behind the mast, searching for a chance to escape. Carlo held the barrel lid firmly in front of him; it was crude but still a shield.

Only a few, like them, kept their cool. Most of the ships were in utter disarray.

In reality, the fleet’s twenty thousand soldiers were mostly conscripted common folk, many of whom had never seen battle before.

Among the entire “naval army” were only 150 knights and 400 professional crossbowmen; the rest were terrified fishermen, barge crews, and dockworkers.

The massive allied fleet had been hastily assembled, and its command structure was far from organized.

On the battlefield, orders came chaotically from various commanders.

The entire fleet plunged into confusion—some ships wanted to form battle lines, others just wanted to flee.

“Everyone listen! No one moves! Hold your positions!”

Carlo immediately recognized the voice—it was Ressart, a French knight temporarily appointed as the ship’s commander.

Carlo had a strong impression of Ressart: tall and imposing, with a thick beard and a muscular frame radiating a cold, commanding aura that inspired both respect and distance.

Most stopped upon hearing his voice, but some, completely terrified, ran about screaming pitifully.

Ressart snatched a crossbow from a nearby mercenary and fired without hesitation.

With a sharp “whizz,” the powerful Genoese crossbow shot struck its target at close range, knocking the man down and stumbling him into the sea.

“Anyone who disobeys won’t be spared.”

Ressart’s ruthless action snapped everyone awake; all froze in place.

He scanned the crowd and shouted:
“I know most of you are peasants captured by mercenaries, but on this battlefield, you are all soldiers under my command, Ressart.

If you want to survive, go to the armory and collect weapons. Hold this ship and wait for orders.”

Carlo reacted swiftly, grabbing Roberto and calling out loud:
“My lord Knight, understood! We’ll get our weapons now!”

After all, arriving early meant a better chance of securing good equipment and improving their survival odds.

A flicker of relief passed through Ressart’s eyes as he nodded.
“Good. Stand by my side shortly.”

Carlo’s prompt compliance set an example, and others soon followed to gather their arms.

As Carlo had anticipated, he and Roberto received decent gear.

Since it was a Genoese warship, they were equipped with Genoese crossbowmen’s gear.

They wielded powerful crossbows—well-crafted, sturdy, with long range and devastating force.

They wore metal helmets with neck guards for critical protection.

Additionally, they received pickaxes and large shields, which provided excellent cover when reloading their crossbows.

The two stood beside Ressart. Carlo, being young, looked like a small child bundled in oversized armor.

Ressart’s gaze lingered on the obviously youthful Carlo, and unexpectedly, a pang of pity stirred within him.

In an instant, his son Raphael’s face flashed before his eyes—about the same age, equally fresh-faced and full of vigor.

Yet Raphael was safely settled in Provence, far from the smoke and fire of war, living peacefully.

But this boy was plunged into chaos, his tender shoulders forced to bear the brutal weight of war.

Ressart crushed the inappropriate emotion deep down.

He knew that at this critical juncture, with flames ready to engulf the land and blades poised to strike,

Pity was a feeble, powerless thing that solved nothing.

His brow furrowed, expression turning icy and severe, his gaze piercing as he fixed Carlo with a sharp stare, speaking deliberately and forcefully:
“Boy, if you have the courage to stand here, you must have the courage to face the coming battle.

Age means nothing on the battlefield—only bravery or cowardice.”

Though terrified, Carlo refused to be underestimated at such a time. He squared his shoulders and said firmly:
“My lord Knight, I’m not afraid. I will fight bravely to protect myself and everyone else.”

Roberto nodded beside him, gripping his weapon tightly.

Carlo quickly raised his large shield before him, adopting a desperate defensive stance.

The Genoese shield was made from hard oak, its edges reinforced with iron bands, giving him a strong sense of security.

Ressart had only briefly focused on Carlo before his sharp eyes were drawn to the shifting situation on the battlefield.

“This isn’t right! What are Hugh and Nicholas thinking? The English fleet has the wind advantage, yet why isn’t our fleet forming ranks and setting sail?”

Carlo knew these two were commanders of the French fleet. Though he didn’t understand war, Ressart’s words made him doubt their reliability.

“Hugh and Nicholas claim to be 'exceptional battle experts’—what nonsense!

They’re just tax collectors who bribe their way with the money squeezed from peasants.

How can the kingdom let two tax officials command the navy?”

Ressart continued to criticize the commanders openly, no attempt to hide his displeasure.

Carlo thought to himself:

“Tax collectors? Bribery?

Could these two be treating war as a money-making scheme?”

Yet he said to Ressart aloud:
“My lord Ressart, you’re right. You’re the true naval expert. If you were commander, you’d be at least ten times better than those two.”

Ressart looked at Carlo and asked:
“Boy, do you know anything about naval warfare?”

Carlo replied:
“I’m Italian, so I don’t know much about sea battles, but I do understand that having the wind advantage in navigation gives you an irresistible power.”

Ressart laughed heartily:
“Ha! You’ve got good insight. I like clever boys like you. After this battle, you’ll be my squire.”

Carlo realized this might be his chance to escape the horrors of war and quickly said:
“My lord Ressart, thank you for your trust. I’d be honored to be your squire.”

Ressart nodded with satisfaction.

Then his brow furrowed again as he focused on deciphering the Genoese fleet’s flag signals.

“Barbanera begs the commanders to let him take three Mediterranean galleys to sea and engage the English Cogs.”

“That’s a good tactic. The allied fleet has both numerical and equipment superiority over the English.

We need to buy time, deploy the fleet, and exchange volleys with the English.”

“France will surely win!”