"……Which bastard is out there talking bad about me?!" Henry Clark was so furious upon hearing this that smoke seemed to be coming out of his ears. These bastards, don't they know that when gossiping, you should lower your voice? Comparing me to a donkey—aren't they just deliberately trying to insult me?

Henry Clark immediately heard the panicked footsteps outside, growing fainter as they ran away, and couldn't help but burst into triumphant laughter. All his earlier gloom and annoyance vanished.

Early the next morning, William Clark personally brought Henry Clark some food—a big bowl of fragrant fish porridge. His large, calloused hands clumsily held the steaming bowl and handed it to Henry Clark. "Son, here, eat up. I caught this fish myself this morning. You're still not fully recovered, so just sit on the bed and drink it."

This fatherly gesture truly moved Henry Clark to tears. After so many years, having not felt the warmth of family for so long, Henry Clark felt a sour ache in his heart and his eyes grew moist.

Chapter 4: Pirates Paying Ransom?

Watching Henry Clark bury his head and gulp down the piping hot, sweet fish porridge, William Clark let out a long sigh of relief. The reason he brought Henry Clark along on this maritime venture was in hopes that his son would mature quickly and take over the family business. Yesterday's fright had nearly scared his soul out of his body. The Clark family had only this one heir in Henry Clark's generation—if anything happened to him, how would he face his wife and Henry Clark's grandmother? After all, Henry Clark was the apple of his mother's eye, her precious child.

After eating his fill, Henry Clark let out a satisfied burp. Chinese food really is the best. The food in Africa, while unique, is always the same few dishes—nothing like the endless variety of Chinese cuisine. Just this bowl of fish porridge was enough to make Henry Clark's mouth water. Now that he was back on land, he was determined to get himself a whole roast suckling pig to indulge. Just thinking about that crispy, golden skin and the juicy, fatty meat made old Clark nearly drool.

"Peng'er, still not enough? I'll go get you another bowl." Mr. Clark assumed his son's appetite had returned and was very pleased—being able to eat was a good sign, proof that his son was recovering well.

"No need, I'm already full," Henry Clark shook his head. "If there's anything you need me to do, just say the word." Henry Clark was never one to sit still. The pain in his head had eased a lot, and now, after a hearty meal, he was full of energy with nowhere to use it. As soon as he arrived in a new environment, he knew he had to quickly get to know the people and things around him—a must-have skill for any excellent salesman.

"What could there be? Heh, you just focus on getting better. Leave everything else to me." William Clark took the big bowl and set it aside, patting Henry Clark on the shoulder.

At that moment, the steward Edward Reed walked in carrying a musket and reported to William Clark that the damaged ships had mostly been repaired, and that the twenty or so captured foreigners were all being held in the lower hold. He asked William Clark how to deal with them.

"There aren't many people who dare attack my fleet. Since when did these Frenchmen get so bold?" William Clark straightened his burly frame and spoke in a deep voice, a fierce murderous intent radiating from him.

"I had the interpreter ask them. They claim they were just passing through, saw our fleet didn't have many cannons, and decided to try their luck. Also, they hope we'll release them and say they're willing to pay us ransom," Edward Reed replied respectfully.

"In our line of work, there's no such rule. They injured my son this badly and still want to live? Chop them all up and feed them to the sharks," William Clark said, clenching his large fist, his eyes shining even brighter than the morning sun slanting into the cabin.

Henry Clark narrowed his eyes, feeling puzzled. Ransom? As far as he knew, in the West, only wars between nobles involved paying ransom for hostages. Hearing William Clark's order, Edward Reed didn't even glance sideways and turned to leave the cabin.

Henry Clark called out, "Wait, Steward Lu, could you let me take a look at that musket?" Henry Clark's gaze was fixed on the musket in Edward Reed's hand. He had never seen a real antique musket before—only pictures—so he couldn't help but feel curious.

Edward Reed was momentarily stunned by Henry Clark's request. He glanced at William Clark, and seeing no objection, handed the musket to Henry Clark. "Be careful, young master. This musket is already loaded."

Henry Clark deftly took it and fiddled with it a bit, then curled his lip in disdain. No wonder this was the eighteenth century—this flintlock was so crudely made, barely better looking than a fire poker. Thinking of the modern firearms he'd played with in his previous life, Henry Clark instantly lost interest. But when his gaze landed on a certain spot on the gun, he suddenly froze. "Wait a minute, if they're French, why are they using British firearms?"

Both Edward Reed and William Clark had question marks popping up over their heads. "Peng'er, what do you mean by that?"