End of Night Four

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

Nightfall; pitch-black, cold and unforgiving... the perfect cover.

A rowboat drifted onto dry land, the craft's wooden frame cleaving it's way across the soft sand; in complete silence, four men climbed out of the vessel, gathered their equipment and began the short sprint across the beach and into the nearest cover. The group had landed near the village of East Budleigh, sent by the request of the Armada's commander-in-chief to neutralise a top-priority target and, despite the poor visual conditions, the soldados were unhindered in their efforts, quickly dashing across field and fen in search of their quarry.

All of fifteen minutes had passed before they reached a reasonably large cottage; there was a silhouette leaning against a waist-height stone wall, which appeared to carry the assured posture of a gentleman, although the only distinguishable feature was a flaring red light appearing where one would assume his mouth would be. The description of their target in mind, the four soldados inched forward through the shadows, watching intently as the red light was nonchantly discarded and the figure disappeared into the nearest house.

It was time to act; the group rushed to the door and, using the array of tools and wood they had brought with them, constructed a makeshift barricade around the building, ensuring that there would be no escape from fate this time; one of the men swore he could hear cries of ayúdame, but he shrugged it off, knowing that this Raleigh gentleman was an intelligent and wily foe. Within a matter of moments, the building was secure and the bonfire had been lit, a signal to the Spanish galleon that had dropped anchor off the coastline.

Aboard the San Martin, flagship of Alonso Pérez de Guzmán, the commander looked out towards the English coastline, telescope in-hand and raised to his right eye; the gentle lapping of waves at starboard side was all that could be heard in the silence of night. With baited breath he waited until the pre-arranged signal became visible, starting it's life as a mere flickering dot in the centre of his telescope before expanding into an almighty blaze that confirmed the target had been found.

"Fire!", Guzmán roared, lifting his arm into the air; the crew bellowed in response before lighting the San Martin's portside cannons, the pinnacle of Iberian artillery.

Dozens of cannonballs hurtled through the air, whistling over East Budleigh and smashing into all and sundry, though the original target of the barricaded cottage bore the brunt of the attack; the sheer force of the bombardment tore holes through the building, which soon collapsed upon the unending onslaught, the occupant sure to have perished inside. The soldados, having sought shelter during the attack, were soon at the scene; it didn't take much rummaging through the remains in order to uncover the deceased; however, the unfortunate victim happened to be Csargo, his badly-mangled corpse barely identifiable but for recognisable personal effects.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Onboard the San Marco, the unfortunate outcome of the assault had been glossed over, as the successful bombardment of East Budleigh had been completed right under the nose of the English without repercussions; the ship had retrieved the infiltrators and proceeded to sail further out into the Channel, and now the crew were engaged in recreational drinking activities.

Chaotix was in his cabin, enjoying a tot of rum as a private pat-on-the-back for his part in the night's events. He had begun to pour a second when there was a knock at the door and a group of men filed into the room; this would usually merit disciplinary action, but Chaotix was in a good mood and he welcomed the sailors in with open arms.

"Mis muchachos, come in, come in!" he grinned, shaking the bottle of rum at his guests, "join me for a celebrationary drink!"

However, the men didn't seem to be in high spirits; they remained stone-like in their expressions, slowly closing in on the commander; he realised too late what was happening, but his cries of ayúdame fell upon deaf ears as he was promptly muffled with a torn cloth shirt, restrained with strong rope and shoved into a large burlap sack.

Even within the confines of the sack, Chaotix could smell the sea air as he was slammed down upon the deck; the celebrations died down near-instantaneously as everyone aboard turned to the men and their writhing sack prize, the silence immediately broken by murmured questions and slurred answers, all off-the-mark.

"We found this English scum hiding in the barrels of the ship!"

These words were more than enough for the crew, still high on the euphoria of their midnight raid; jeers echoed in the night sky, and Chaotix winced as he heard several clicking sounds above him, which he instantly recognised as the arquebusiers preparing their firearms. Picked up once more and hastily pushed against the side of the ship, the concealed commander was shot by several rifles, the force of the impact causing him to topple over the ship's rail and into the bone-chilling waters of the Channel.