Chapter 1480 - Hale's Cannon

These were the newly cast Dahlgren guns. Ever since Hale recovered this type of cannon from the wreckage of the 901, the arsenal had labored to replicate it. But the limitations of his workers' skills and the lack of technical specifications meant Hale could not employ the Rodman casting method—center-cooling—that was critical to the Dahlgren gun's performance. The result was that his Dahlgrens were mere imitations in form, their capabilities greatly diminished. For safety's sake—however much it surprised him that the "Australians" cast only 130mm Dahlgrens—he ensured that the caliber of similar guns produced in Manila did not exceed this limit. He was forced to rely on a second-best approach: forging the gun body with a water-powered drop hammer, boring it out to create a smoothbore piece, and finally cutting rifling into the bore.

Deficiencies in worker quality and machinery operating efficiency made it difficult to improve either artillery quality or output. Worst of all, the chronic shortage of fuel and raw materials left the factory frequently idling. The resources this drowsy Philippine colony could currently provide were utterly inadequate for Hale's ambitions. He was compelled to depend on unreliable, long-cycle import trade for nearly everything—which was precisely why he pressed so urgently to develop the Baguio gold mine and propose that the colonial authorities establish a mint. The Philippines lacked exportable commodities; royal subsidies from New Spain and local taxes alone could hardly support such massive military preparation.

Even so, producing cannons that made Spaniards click their tongues in admiration was already enormous progress. The cunning Mr. Hale always used that cannon manufactured by the Bopu Arsenal for firing demonstrations, ensuring that dignitaries departed with a profound impression.

Fernando Marcos was merely a seaman who could not tell front-loading from breech-loading, yet when he saw the never-before-seen Dahlgren guns rolled from the casting workshop, he still cheered sincerely for his patron.

In the open space stood a human-powered crane constructed from logs—the most common machine in the factory grounds, designed for hoisting heavy guns. But the three Tagalog laborers Marcos observed now were not busy lifting cannons. Instead, they had lashed together several apparently heavy wooden crates and were hoisting them onto a waiting oxcart. Compared to loading each box individually, this was naturally faster and more efficient.

Then Marcos realized something was terribly wrong. Having spent considerable time in Hale's factory, he recognized at once that those long crate slats were specialized packaging for rockets.

He roared. The driver reined in the horse in terror, watching Master Marcos leap from the canopy, jump to the ground, and sprint toward the crane, screaming oaths as he ran. The native laborers stood bewildered. Though they could not understand the stream of Philippine-accented English Marcos poured out in his panic, seeing a "Master" so agitated clearly meant something awful had happened. As if to prove his rage well-founded, the rope binding the ammunition crates snapped at that very moment. The wooden boxes crashed onto the rammed earth with heavy whistles; shattered wood wrapped in clods of dried mud flew in all directions.

Marcos did not know how long he lay on the ground before he realized there had been no explosion. He saw the three native laborers still standing there, dumbstruck. Although their naked upper bodies were sliced all over by flying splinters—some wounds bleeding—they remained motionless, frozen stiff with terror.

The packing crates had shattered, the tin linings burst open, revealing the rockets inside. Because of their simple structure and convenient processing, Hale rocket output far exceeded that of cannons and shells; large quantities of finished products were transported out of the factory daily. Marcos made a rough inspection. Luck had been good—only two rockets had broken guide sticks. The papier-mâché pressed warheads were intact, though a few of the sheet-iron rolled bodies showed impact dents. Thinking that those iron sheets and paper shells were crammed with gunpowder and incendiary agents, thinking that this accident had nearly buried the entire factory—and himself—Marcos flew into a fury. He snatched up his cane and rained blows upon the three offending coolies. The wretched men fell to the ground, heads broken and bleeding, wailing and sobbing. But Marcos showed no sign of stopping. The cane rose and fell with full force, just as the Zheng family overseers had once whipped him.

The commotion was loud. Suddenly Marcos felt his right arm seized by a strong hand. His patron, Hale—or Paul—stood behind him, wearing his customary priestly black robe, though without the hat. "Marcos, confine these three idiots for now. There will be ample time later to teach them how to follow the rules."

Several Chinese foremen led a small squad of coolies to carry the scattered rockets back to the workshop, as Hale directed. Only then did Marcos notice several Spaniards standing beside his patron. He recognized a few as East Indies Fleet officers; Captain Zubizarretta was among them. They surrounded a middle-aged officer dressed in brocade and possessed of a majestic bearing. The bright ribbons and medals on his chest, the epaulets laden with tassels and embroidery—all marked him as a noble general. Marcos, of course, had no access to the colony's high society circles; otherwise, he would surely have recognized this new celebrity in Manila: Commodore Marquis Don Juan de Baza y Cordova. He had traveled via Mexico to Manila on royal orders, expressly to inspect the novelties appearing here. The news had stirred a thousand waves in the colony's upper circles. Overnight, the wind changed; most colonial officials declared themselves staunch supporters of Governor Salamanca. Consequently, the eccentric Japanese monk Paul—who lived in seclusion—had once again become a great favorite.

"As you can see, a small accident just occurred here," Hale explained to the Commodore. His soft tone and composed demeanor inspired the latter's high trust and favor. "But there is a benefit. You witnessed with your own eyes that rockets and ammunition manufactured by my method will not explode even when striking the ground from a height of ten varas. Once fuzes are installed, they will destroy targets with devastating explosions and fire, yet pose no harm to the shooter—nor detonate accidentally while flying over your own troops. Sir, the weapons we produce are reliable for His Majesty's army and terrible for His Majesty's enemies. In both respects, they far exceed any existing howitzers. Perhaps someone told you these weapons are difficult to manufacture and costly. That is nonsense. Please follow me; facts will prove everything." Hale turned and walked toward the workshop gate. "Marcos, lead the way for us."

Hale's tour route had obviously been arranged with care beforehand. The Spanish officers, insisting on wearing formal dress despite the heat, were first led to visit the casting and forging workshop—privately dubbed "Fiery Hell" by devout Catholic native laborers. Walls of rammed unslaked lime and clay wrapped around tall wooden pillars that supported a semi-open roof designed to facilitate fire prevention and air circulation. The high ceiling echoed with the banging of water hammers and the roar of water-powered bellows, mingled with the hiss of red-hot iron plunged into water and a hundred other sounds that seemed almost unearthly. All of it gathered in this gloomy space—what little sunlight penetrated between wall and roof was obscured and polluted by boiling heat and thick smoke. Amid the dim murk, one could not distinguish Chinese workers from Tagalog laborers at all. Smoked black from head to foot, they crawled in and out like ants, blurred, haunting, spectral.

Marcos was already familiar with these scenes, yet he still watched in awe as workers lifted red-hot forgings onto the anvil. The crimson glow reflected on their pain-twisted faces; they moved the copper and iron pieces silently, carefully. Cams driven by water wheels raised the arm, and the drop hammer crashed down heavily onto the forging. Sparks exploded outward—like the weapons of giants from myth, a single blow capable of shattering a man to pieces.

Marcos was already drenched in sweat. The Spanish gentlemen had long since removed their hats and wigs. Several men wearing ruffs nearly fainted, begging attendants to pour wine to slake their thirst. Hale appeared oblivious; he continued to guide his guests toward the furnaces. Craftsmen working in pairs used iron tongs to lift crucibles from which molten steel flashed with blinding white light as it flowed into sand molds. Sweating rivers and gasping for breath, the Spaniards listened as Hale explained in his unchanging serene tone how this crucible steel could yield the finest swords and drill bits.

Brick reverberatory furnaces lay beneath the factory shed like giant coffins. Captain Iker Zubizarretta approached the massive water-powered bellows before one furnace, hoping to catch a cool breeze beside the huge wooden fan blades that opened and closed continuously. At that very moment, a laborer flung open the furnace door. Incandescent light pierced the thick smoke and dust, sending Iker stumbling backward. Men fed the reverberatory furnace: flames roared from its maw like a gluttonous beast, devouring firewood, charcoal, and whole baskets of dried peat dug from the swamps as if lapping up oil. Though Hale described to the Commodore the magnificent spectacle of molten iron pouring out to cast cannon blanks—reciting Iliad-style verses as he spoke—the Spaniards were eager to flee this hell of fire and smoke. They were delayed briefly at the exit passage by a heavy-duty trolley, watching as a cast cannon blank was hoisted onto the cart and pushed along the hardwood rails laid on the ground to the next workshop. Even after cooling in the sand pit, the massive cast-iron blank still radiated unbearable heat, emitting a dark, deep-red glow like a beast's baleful eye.

(End of Chapter)