Chapter 1433 - The Submarine

"A boat that can sail underwater?!" Lando narrowed his eyes. This was his second meeting with Mr. De Fernando at the tavern, and news that the shipyard was building a submarine came as genuine surprise. Mr. Vince Lando had never been a studious pupil, but he recalled seeing the Turtle from the War of Independence in popular history books during his middle school days. He hadn't been particularly interested in it, but at least he remembered that the thing could submerge and navigate—and had once attempted to destroy a British warship.

"That's ridiculous. How can a boat float up after sinking underwater? You must have drunk too much tuba."

"I swear to God, I haven't." Captain Fernando, terrified that the gold coins already in his pocket might fly away, described in meticulous detail the secrets of this mysterious submarine—completed and already tested at sea.

According to Captain Fernando's account, the small craft "resembled a shark" and carried eight crew members. Its design was remarkably simple, with no facilities like ballast tanks; naturally, there was no need to flood or pump water. The submarine was lowered directly into the sea by crane. By carefully calculating buoyancy and gravity, and using four external iron ballasts along with four leather bags "filled with oil," the vessel was made to suspend underwater at a depth of roughly half a Spanish fathom—about 0.8 meters—when fully loaded. At this depth, the conning tower at the bow sat slightly above the surface, allowing observation of sea conditions. Crew members propelled the submarine by hand-cranking a propeller and steered via rudder. When it needed to surface, discarding the ballasts allowed the vessel to float up—though after doing so, it could no longer submerge and had to return to port to re-equip.

"A boat capable of lurking underwater is certainly intriguing—but how will you operate it in combat? Obviously, you can't fire cannons underwater."

"Yes," Captain Fernando agreed. "This involves another mysterious new weapon invented by Mr. Takayama."

This did not exceed Lando's expectations: a spar torpedo. He had seen spar torpedo boats built by the Council of Elders in Bopu and elsewhere. Since there were no targets worthy of their deployment, these vessels currently served in harbor defense.

In his view, operating such a weapon bordered on suicide—it only made some sense for a navy like the Council of Elders', which possessed steam power and armor-manufacturing capabilities, to equip them.

"This weapon is designed very cleverly. It can easily pierce an enemy hull. After hooking the torpedo body in place, the submarine can quietly withdraw—it will explode thirty minutes later, extremely punctually." Captain Fernando spoke with great enthusiasm, apparently oblivious to the immense danger involved.

Simply madness! Lando thought. Using a human-powered submarine without even a periscope to conduct spar torpedo attacks—this was a seventeenth-century kamikaze squad! Captain Fernando probably didn't understand the enormous peril he would face.

"Do you have a chance to arrange for me to see this boat?"

"I'm afraid it's very difficult. Sentries are posted around the dock at all times."

The black-clad man tapped the gold coin in his hand lightly. Captain Fernando swallowed. "I'll think of a way."

In subsequent meetings, Captain De Fernando provided nearly every detail of the submarine—so much that Mr. Lando, who had no drafting experience, was able to draw a line diagram from his descriptions, though even he couldn't fully interpret it. The matter of entering the shipyard for an on-site inspection, however, never materialized. Mr. Lando decided not to wait any longer. Since he already knew the craft's general structure, and he possessed no knowledge of this ancient weaponry anyway, he wouldn't be able to analyze much even if he saw it with his own eyes.

At this moment, Mr. Geronimo Paño's headache was growing worse. The deadline stipulated in the patrol boat contract loomed ever closer, yet the newly established munitions factory sucked away skilled Chinese craftsmen like a water pump. Geronimo couldn't even gather enough blacksmiths to make boat nails. Most critically, even iron materials were in short supply. If that Paulo Takayama hadn't sent men over to generously deliver some bent scrap iron, he truly wouldn't know how to continue.

Though these iron pieces looked as if they'd been corroded by seawater, after the rust was removed and the metal heated, the shipyard blacksmiths praised them highly—all excellent malleable wrought iron.

Geronimo Paño had plenty of reasons to curse this damned job. Just days ago, Count Fananovoua—the hottest social star in all of Manila—had graced the shipyard with his presence aboard the Esmeralda, beautiful as a white swan. What a noble and generous man! Geronimo could have repaired his yacht and easily taken handfuls of gold coins from his pocket. But the nobleman had wandered the shipyard, shaken his head at the packed slipways and docks, returned to his yacht, cast off, and departed. Geronimo's dream of quick profit had fallen through. At present, he could only desperately try to complete the patrol boat orders before the deadline. He had no desire to be sent back to Havana by an enraged Governor, returning miserably to a shipwright's life with no hope of advancement.

To make matters worse, the Governor had also ordered him to complete the refurbishment of the Nautilus submersible as soon as possible. Geronimo had been forced to divert precious manpower. Paulo Takayama's masterpiece enjoyed special treatment, occupying the only covered dry dock in the shipyard all by itself. The Governor had been generous with iron parts manufactured at the munitions factory, as well as thin copper sheets for wrapping the hull and well-made copper nails—all rolled by water-powered mills, bright and gleaming. Geronimo recognized them as high-quality tin brass. But he hadn't received the craftsmen he needed most. Instead, the Governor had sent soldiers to guard the dock where the Nautilus was parked day and night, watching for "all suspicious persons."

The shipyard director had been forced to recruit manpower himself. Local natives were weak and lazy, fit only for rough coolie work like moving timber. Fortunately, two new Chinese men had arrived at the shipyard seeking employment the day before yesterday. They actually wore shoes, so they didn't seem to be destitute coolies—which was why they hadn't been dragged into the munitions factory the moment they disembarked. Both wore short jackets and hats, and their carpentry and painting skills were passably acceptable. Geronimo particularly noticed their strong arms; they could lift timber that would take two or three Tagalogs to carry. Watching the shipwrights and coolies labor desperately, the director felt his headache ease a little. He stepped out of his office, looked at the darkening sky, and ordered dinner to be served. Mr. Geronimo Paño's dinner was not so easily earned. To be worthy of this taro soup and tuba wine—not too watered down—those uncouth heathens had to produce a sufficient amount of work.

Night deepened. As was typical in the tropics, a clear mist filled the sky, shrouding the moon and forming a soft, complete halo of color around it. The Spaniards had never established a strict night-production system, so after Mr. Geronimo retired to his cool and comfortable residence, the overseers slipped back to their huts to sleep. Most local coolies were drunk, sprawled beneath the slipways and snoring.

Faint lights still burned in a few spots around the shipyard—fires lit with waste wood chips and old hawsers to facilitate night work. The two Chinese men continued laboring methodically. The thick two-man saw hissed rhythmically in their hands; Mr. Geronimo had ordered them to prepare enough timber for the next day's use. Occasionally, a ball of firelight would flare beside the covered dry dock in the distance—soldiers patrolling with torches.

By midnight, however, all noise in the shipyard had gradually ceased. The two strong Chinese men slowed their work as well; they, too, appeared tired and in need of rest. At last they dropped the saw and walked toward the dark covered dry dock. No one witnessed their movements. Even if someone had, they would merely have assumed the pair wanted a quiet spot to sleep.

Two colonial soldiers sat smoking behind the dry dock. The torches had burned out, but they would continue patrolling until relief arrived after sunrise. The duty was boring and exhausting. The strange olive-shaped vessel under the roof had aroused their curiosity at first, but guarding such a boat day after day had become mind-numbing.

Light footsteps approached from ahead. One soldier looked up, alert, his hand reaching for the matchlock leaning against the dock wall. He quickly relaxed. It was only the two off-duty Chinese craftsmen walking this way. Both wore hats, and the moonlight gleamed on their naked, sweat-glistening torsos. Worn-out short jackets were draped over their shoulders.

Both colonial soldiers were Pampangans recruited from Macabebe. They didn't understand Chinese, but they were accustomed to the cringing, fawning manner Philippine Chinese involuntarily displayed when facing colonial soldiers. The Chinese men who approached bowed, clutching their clothes, pointing at the soldiers' cheroot cigars and miming a lighting motion. The Pampangan mercenaries decided these two were simply asking to borrow a light. One produced a flint-and-tinder pouch from his shirt, waved it in front of the Chinese, then stuffed it back into his pocket—waiting for the Chinese to show disappointed, pained expressions at being tricked. Compared to getting whipped by the sergeant on the drill ground, this little game was far more amusing.

The Chinese men's actions suddenly turned strange. The Pampangan soldier panicked, felt his arm pinned. Instinctively he tried to shout, but the ragged clothes clutched in the other's hand sealed his mouth, reducing his cry to muffled gurgles trapped in his chest. A cold blade pierced his windpipe. The colonial soldier's life ended there—he and his companion falling dead together on the cold ground.