However, compared to the reconnaissance standards of this era, their performance was already perfect. At least Edward Reed felt very satisfied—Master had arranged things quite well. This ship, let alone others, even he himself, upon seeing it, would think it had just gone through a brutal and devastating battle; the fact that it could still float on the water was already a miracle.

Poker-faced Edward Reed was wearing a tattered French military uniform stripped from those Brits, and his hat had become a bizarre shape. If he planted his musket on the deck and stretched out a trembling hand to Henry Clark, he would look exactly like a newly authorized Beggar Sect disciple, just permitted to go out and beg on the streets.

There were only about a dozen people standing on the deck. Aside from the filler roles of Captain, First Mate, and Second Mate, they were all Chinese. But they too had donned wigs and ragged uniforms taken from those Brits. One pirate leader, Michael Bolton, even had pants so torn they were split at the crotch, revealing a bright red, eye-catching loincloth that drew plenty of attention. Henry Clark curiously went over to ask about it, and amid the pirates’ strange laughter, Michael Bolton bashfully revealed the truth: at just over twenty years old, this big boss was in his zodiac year.

Damn, even pirates care about their zodiac year? This made Henry Clark both angry and amused. He kicked the “corpse” next to him, who was laughing so hard he was clutching his belly: “Act more professional, all of you! If anyone laughs again, I’ll have you stripped naked and hung from the mast to laugh your fill.”

As soon as Master Clark said this, all the corpses instantly became deader than dead. Everywhere he looked, these disguised French mercenaries looked shifty and suspicious—more like a bunch of deserters than blood-soaked soldiers.

Henry Clark sighed helplessly, clamped a cigar between his teeth, and Scholar Bennett hurried over to light it for him. He had secretly dug it out from under his father’s bed yesterday, a trophy his father had stashed away in the Captain's Cabin of this armed merchant ship. He admired this group of ersatz French soldiers.

“I’ve helped France establish their Foreign Legion more than thirty years ahead of schedule,” Henry Clark sniffed, savoring the cigar’s flavor, feeling like he’d become the commander of the most famous mercenary corps of later generations.

“Master, the sentry on the reef has spotted three large sailing ships heading our way. One of them really is that kind of Spanish galleon that guy mentioned,” Edward Reed said, glancing at the man slumped under the mainmast, his clothes tattered and stained with dark blood, his face so swollen and deformed he looked like someone who’d just taken a dump in a cannibal’s vegetable patch in Africa, got caught, and then was beaten with a sack of rice a hundred times by a strong cannibal.

Henry Clark nodded at Edward Reed, then turned to size up Sir George Comley, who was leaning against the mainmast, gasping for breath. When this man saw Master Clark’s gaze, he quickly forced himself upright. “Sir, do you have any orders?” His expression was extremely respectful, but the flashes of resentment and fear in his eyes betrayed his terror at this moment.

……

“Dear Captain sir, you don’t mind if I smoke a cigar, do you? Sorry, all the other cigars were confiscated by my dear old man. I doubt there’s another one left on this ship. If you want one, you can go get one yourself from those Spaniards’ ships later,” Henry Clark blew a smoke ring into the wind, nearly choking himself.

“Thank you for your generosity, but what I need is a doctor, not a cigar.” Even though he’d lost a few teeth and the rest were loose, his noble upbringing still lent his speech a certain grace. More importantly, he had no desire to become a member of a castrato opera troupe. Remembering those two bloody little white appendages that had dangled before his eyes more than ten hours ago, he felt a chill run from his scalp all the way down to his rear.

“Satan is only fit to be this demon’s henchman. God, please send this demon to hell—he’ll surely find his own kind there.” Stroking the ribs at his chest, which seemed to have been broken, Sir George Comley, still forced to play the French captain on deck, cursed bitterly in his heart.

Sir George Comley’s resentment had no effect whatsoever on cigar-smoking Henry Clark. He was wearing the neatest French uniform they could find, though it had been slashed in several places and stained with blood for dramatic effect.

It had to be said, Old Clark’s luck in transmigration was pretty good—he hadn’t ended up in the body of some weakling. This physique was every bit as strong as Henry Clark’s own, honed through countless trials in his previous life. Even more importantly, Little Henry Clark II seemed no smaller than the previous Little Henry Clark. This discovery made Henry Clark, who was standing at the bow peeing into the wind at the time, secretly delighted. After all, the kid was only seventeen and still had room to grow. It looked like, in this era without family planning, his previous life’s dream of creating a whole new nation might just have a real chance of coming true.