Nightfall descended.
Above the North Sea, the howling wind grew increasingly bitter, its speed rapidly climbing to 32 knots—a Force Seven gale.
Tier upon tier of great waves surged, their height already approaching three meters.
Common sense dictated that in the prelude to this clearly gathering storm, all sailing ships at sea, whether majestic First-Rate Ships or inconspicuous sampans, should have long since sought a Sheltered Harbor to drop Anchor and take refuge.
If any dared to continue sailing on the high seas, even with all sails furled, they would tragically see their masts splintered.
Capsizing and sinking would be their only fate!
Strangely, such utterly irrational behavior was precisely what was occurring just beyond the perpetually fog-shrouded Iron Anchor Bay.
Upon that stretch of sea, characterized by countless "small hills" of water, a vast Fleet advanced like a crab scuttling sideways, straight into the wind.
