Chapter 998 The Dutchman's Heart

Lingao was a beehive. So went the common assessment, and anyone setting foot on the harbor dock for the first time immediately understood why. The busy, tense, and lively atmosphere was palpable from the moment of arrival. Those who ventured deeper—particularly into the industrial and agricultural zones along both banks of the Wenlan River, or into the residential quarters—found this impression only strengthening.

The streets teemed with busy crowds and vehicles from dawn until dusk. "Meteor" locomotives pulled open carriages either piled high with goods or packed with passengers. Despite safety regulations prohibiting riders from hanging off the sides, and despite the police and National Army soldiers stationed at every stop to maintain order, each train still departed overloaded with people clinging wherever they could find purchase. Every day brought reports of someone falling from a train—fortunately, the Meteor's speed barely exceeded a walking pace, keeping the casualty rate at a level the Planning Bureau deemed tolerable.

Around noon that day, the rumble of cannon fire rolled across from Bopu Wharf—the salute for foreign vessels entering port. Such ceremonies were rare in Lingao. Apart from occasional Portuguese ships, only Chinese merchantmen called here, and in summer, even those visits were infrequent.

Van de Lantron stood upon the sterncastle, watching with keen interest as the Australian sampan was fastened with tow ropes. The four-hundred-ton Magdeburg would be dragged into port by this modest boat. Dutch "yachts" of the era were notoriously unwieldy, and steering mechanisms remained primitive. Navigating fjord-like harbors presented tremendous difficulty. Without riding the tide in and out of port, relying solely on the captain's piloting skills made accurate anchorage virtually impossible.

Every time the Magdeburg entered or exited a harbor, its own ship boats had to be lowered to tow the larger vessel. In Australian ports, however, this work was handled by Australian craft, with fees bundled into pilotage costs.

The small Australian tow boat was a curiosity in itself. It sported a smokestack that spewed thick black smoke, yet carried no visible oarsmen. Despite its modest size, it possessed remarkable power, effortlessly pulling heavily laden ships behind it. Van de Lantron had witnessed this capability firsthand when the Magdeburg transported spices to Hong Kong during its previous voyage.

The Dutch generally avoided sailing to the Chinese mainland coast in summer—wind direction was unfavorable, and the danger of typhoons loomed ever-present. But this time, the Magdeburg's risky voyage served a purpose beyond mere trade; it carried an important mission.

This was Van de Lantron's second visit to Bopu. Per urgent instructions from the Australians' Colonial Trade Department, the Magdeburg had brought substantial quantities of woolen cloth, cotton fabric, and sheepskin—most of the woolens being English-made. Given the fierce commercial rivalry between the Dutch and English, purchasing textiles from a competitor seemed baffling—particularly since Holland itself was renowned for fine woolens. But for the Dutch East India Company, the interests of the company and its major shareholders superseded all else. If English woolens were cheap enough to generate sufficient profit, no opportunity would be passed over.

The English, after all, were merely commercial rivals—nominally still Holland's ally. In years to come, the East India Company would unhesitatingly sell and transport food and weapons to the enemies of their warring homeland. Because profit acknowledged no motherland.

Half an hour later, the Magdeburg was secured at Berth No. 5. Van de Lantron greatly admired the Australians' port facilities. Every vessel had wharves available, eliminating the need for small boats to ferry cargo and personnel back and forth. Cranes lifted cargo directly from ships; passengers ascended and descended gangplanks without delay. The time saved was enormous. In Lingao, Sanya, and Hong Kong alike, ship turnaround was measured in hours and days rather than the weeks and months typical elsewhere.

Van de Lantron was soon greeted by an old acquaintance—Mr. Leibu Trini, stationed in Lingao as the Dutch East India Company's consul. The Italian had already completed all port formalities. Van de Lantron reviewed the customs declaration and required documents one final time; finding no errors, he handed the papers to the customs officials. The subsequent unloading, inspection, and taxation would be handled entirely by Australian customs and port services—no further oversight on his part was needed.

"Mr. Trini, it has been too long. You look well."

Trini had once harbored resentment about his assignment as consul in Lingao. The position admittedly carried somewhat greater prestige than his former role in Batavia, and his salary had increased by several guilders. Moreover, the company permitted him to sell certain company goods in Lingao—spices popular among the Chinese such as ambergris, myrrh, and sandalwood—from which he derived considerable income.

Yet Trini understood perfectly well why this lucrative post had fallen to him. He was a painter and cartographer, stationed here to spy. And being Italian—a Catholic of dubious faith, keen on science and mysticism—if the Australians chose to behead him, the Dutch would neither mourn his loss nor suffer any entanglement.

But his time in Lingao had transformed Trini's perspective. He now regarded his work here as second in importance only to family and life itself—something no one else was permitted to interfere with.

"A day in Lingao surpasses a year of my travels in this world," Trini had written in letters to friends.

"It's remarkably sanitary here, and life is colorful," Trini said aloud. "Food supply isn't bad either. Just rarely any meat."

Van de Lantron's mouth curved into a mocking smile. "I thought you'd complain about insufficient olive oil."

By European standards that judged culinary quality by meat consumption, Italian meals remained quite poor well into the first half of the twentieth century. Most Italian commoners subsisted on simple bread slices with a few drops of olive oil and perhaps a bit of cheese.

Trini recognized the condescension in this wooden-shoe-wearer's words—he'd endured such remarks countless times. Even though Dutch cuisine was equally renowned for its simplicity and crudeness, at least the Dutch ate far more meat than Italians.

"The Australians have shown considerable interest in olive oil," Trini replied evenly. "Perhaps before long they'll consider importing it from Europe. The prerequisite, of course, is that the company devises a method for long-term preservation of oils."

"It's said they're quite fond of oils and fats in general?"

"Indeed. They purchase enormous quantities of dried coconut precisely for this purpose."

As the two conversed and departed the customs house, the empty bell tower above it caught Van de Lantron's attention. From his previous visit to now, that tower had remained vacant. He found it peculiar—why didn't the Australians equip it with a set of resonant bronze bells, rather than leaving it hollow? He knew from Trini's letters that the Australians wished to install an unprecedented timekeeping device in these vacant towers but had thus far been unable to realize their vision.

"Mr. Trini, your latest sketchbook caused quite a sensation in Batavia. There's even a collector willing to pay handsomely for it. Who would have imagined your artistic inspiration would flourish so remarkably since arriving here?"

Trini dispatched one of his sketchbooks to Batavia by ship every month—whenever vessels were sailing. The sketchbooks served dual purposes: artistic creation and intelligence reports. Nothing conveyed information more accurately than direct visuals.

"Thank you for your kind words. There are many new things here, beyond anything I've previously conceived or experienced. It has greatly stimulated my inspiration." Trini smiled and produced a wooden cigarette case. "Including Australian indulgences."

Van de Lantron accepted a cigar. He wasn't unfamiliar with the practice—some Spaniards smoked tobacco this way regularly. Personally, he still preferred pipes, but he didn't mind an occasional change.

"Australian friends have expressed hope that I might help them procure works by renowned Italian painters: Da Vinci, Raphael, Michelangelo..." He rattled off over a dozen notable Renaissance-era painters in a single breath, some already famous in their time, others less celebrated. "Also Stradivari and Guarneri violins."

For Trini's friends and family in Italy to acquire such artworks would be unimaginable—they lacked the financial means. Only the East India Company, with wealth rivaling nations, possessed such capability.

"Their standards are exacting indeed. Setting aside the others, Da Vinci's works will prove exceedingly difficult. Most of his paintings reside in the French King's possession. As for the rest, it depends on whether your Italian compatriots can be persuaded to part with them." Van de Lantron considered. "I've brought two Guarneris this voyage, along with several instruments you specifically requested, plus the musicians mentioned in your letter. I suspect the Australians may be Chinese in origin but possess decidedly Western artistic tastes."

"Difficult to say with certainty. I can grasp only a fraction of their aesthetic preferences. They also display great enthusiasm for certain peculiar line drawings—highly exaggerated, intensely stylized, deeply narrative..."

After the two men discussed Australian art for some time, they reached the edge of the customs square.

"Sir, I'd like you to experience something new." The Italian gestured toward a wooden-structured shed diagonally across from Bopu Customs. Beneath the shed stood a brick platform elevated above ground level.

The platform was already crowded with people, all seemingly waiting with eager anticipation.

"What are they waiting for..."

Whoo... clack-clack, clack-clack, clack-clack...

"Is this a new Australian mode of transportation?" Van de Lantron found himself seated in a moving carriage before he'd fully registered what was happening—clearly, what the crowd had awaited was some manner of conveyance.

"Indeed, my dear sir. The Australians call it a train. It runs upon two iron rails. The speed approaches that of a fast horse. But observe, sir—this train comprises five carriages and can seat over two hundred people..."

Van de Lantron found the spectacle fascinating, but years of experience with this Italian told him Trini wished to convey something more than simple facts.

(End of Chapter)