Chapter 218: Fort Santiago

These days, Jiang Shan always arrived at the Foreign Intelligence Bureau office a little later than usual. He had also developed a rather inconspicuous habit: as soon as he sat down, he would unconsciously rest his hand under his nose, as if a faint scent of perfume still lingered on his fingers.

The bureau secretary brought in the documents awaiting his attention, placing them in different baskets according to their labels. She was a confidential secretary transferred from the Political Security confidential training class, responsible only for work. Jiang Shan had never purchased a personal secretary. He lived alone in an apartment and ate all his meals in the canteen.

He closed his eyes for a moment to banish the lingering image of the woman from last night, then picked up the file bag from the top basket, stamped with a red seal. The label indicated that this document came from the Macau station. The letter was classified as top priority, top secret.

The Macau station was a major window and channel for the Foreign Intelligence Bureau to monitor the movements of Europeans in Southeast Asia and to maintain channels with the Jesuits. It held the status of a first-class station.

He broke the wax seal on the kraft paper envelope, and a European-style letter slipped out. From the exaggerated coat of arms on it, he knew it was a letter from Rando.

The letterhead inside was printed with an exquisite family crest, and the letter itself was a thick stack of paper. The Count of Fannanuova’s Portuguese was very sloppy, with a translation attached below. In the letter, he discussed mineralogy with a purely fictitious subordinate in extremely lengthy terms, rambling on and on with a host of tedious demands for the mining machinery he had ordered in Macau. Jiang Shan glanced at it briefly, then turned the letter over. The real intelligence was written on the back. The confidential room’s cipher clerk had already applied a layer of iodine solution to the paper, revealing blue writing on the previously blank back. The combination and arrangement of the letters were encrypted.

In addition to the original, the file bag also contained a typed copy that had been decoded and organized by the confidential room. The report was written in English, a language Jiang Shan was very familiar with, so it had not been translated.

In the letter, Weiss described in detail his new discovery in Manila—a newly built artillery firing range. The Spanish already possessed some kind of rifled cannon, equipped with shells with some kind of fuze, and shrapnel. Finally, Weiss cautiously put forward his speculation: the transmigrator who had been missing from Ship A, the Mackerel, the Japanese-American He Er, was currently in Manila and had become Governor Salamanca’s most trusted chief military engineer.

Jiang Shan read the report from beginning to end three times, then put down the manuscript, grabbed the handle of the magneto telephone on his desk and cranked it a few times. He picked up the receiver. “Hello… Central Exchange?… Connect me to the Executive Committee… Who’s there?… Chairman Wen?… Alright, then connect me to Chairman Wen’s office…”

Although he didn’t make many public appearances, the Count of Fannanuova still caused quite a stir in Manila’s high society. The local debutantes were quite interested in him, and all sorts of rumors about the Count were the most eye-catching topics at boudoir tea parties. This inevitably caused displeasure among their husbands, the colonial officials and wealthy merchants. The big merchants especially hated the Count, because his understated luxury made their ostentatious, nouveau-riche displays seem worthless and utterly ridiculous. Esteban de Sanabria spread the word everywhere that the Count was a complete fraud, actually a swindler who had escaped from New Spain. But at a fundraising event for the Feast of Saint Peter, Sanabria’s remarks were harshly criticized. “You are always accustomed to judging others by your own standards,” a Jesuit from Macau rebuked him. The Dominicans and Franciscans, who had received large donations from Mr. Rando, joined in the chorus. Sanabria found himself not only the laughingstock of the city, but also in danger of becoming an enemy of the clergy and being branded a heretic. It was said that His Excellency the Inquisitor had always been very concerned about the faith of wealthy merchants. To avoid attracting their attention, he had to swallow his anger towards the Count, and thus secretly hated him all the more.

This storm had no effect on Weiss Rando, or rather, he had no time to deal with such trivial matters. He was now busy cultivating relationships with colonial military officers, inviting them to hunt with him and hosting lavish banquets for them at his villa, the likes of which had never been seen locally. All this quickly paid off. Major Alfonso praised the Count’s fine horses and weapons, as well as his excellent marksmanship. Colonel Echasu, on the other hand, was lost in a sea of rum, chartreuse, fruit brandy, and plates full of delicacies, completely content. The rum, in particular, chilled with well water after being mixed with fruit juice, was like nectar in the terrible heat of Manila. Since the Jesuits praised the Count’s bravery in fighting for the glory of the Lord, and he was so generous, he was definitely “one of us.” This was the unanimous opinion of the colonial officers. Echasu, for the first time ever, wrote a personal letter inviting Weiss to a game of tejo.

The tejo court was actually a section of land roped off on the parade ground outside Fort Santiago. The surrounding trees provided ample shade, and the grass was as thick and soft as a carpet. The hollow clay tiles used for the game would not break even if they fell to the ground. At eight in the morning, the officers had already gathered, fully armed and mounted on their warhorses, lined up in two impressive rows as if going into battle.

The drums thundered, and the first to emerge was Captain Pilar, a cavalry captain under Echasu’s command. A cavalryman from Weiss’s side immediately rode out to meet him. The two engaged in a spectacular chase. Captain Pilar showed off his horsemanship, nimbly dodging the tiles thrown by his pursuer or accurately deflecting them with his shield. Another rider from the opposite line charged out to support the captain, turning the pursuer into the pursued in an instant. Weiss spurred his horse forward to support his companion. One by one, riders charged out from the lines, and the competition eventually devolved into a chaotic game of tile-throwing. The attendants ran around behind, picking up the tiles with their hands and feet and handing them to their masters, all while trying to avoid the horses’ hooves. It was a skilled job. The clumsy Schlick was hit several times by the flying tiles, which were like stray bullets, and fell to the ground. Fortunately, he was not trampled by the horses.

The game ended at ten in the morning with the sounding of the gong. The Count, clearly still full of energy, proposed a tour of Fort Santiago. His request was naturally granted, but the old colonel was a little tired after two hours of intense exercise. He asked Captain Pilar to accompany the Count, offered his apologies, and then slipped back to the barracks.

“It’s really cool here,” Captain Pilar said, turning his head in surprise to find the Count watching him with his trademark toothy grin, used to hide his true feelings. It was almost noon, and the tropical sun was beginning to emit its venomous white light. Beads of sweat seeped out from under the cavalry captain’s powdered wig and trickled down his cheeks like little rivers. The Count’s patience was almost unbearable. He seemed to be interested in every room, every corner, even every drain and ventilation shaft of the fortress, examining each one carefully. He also walked with a somewhat unnatural and mechanical gait. Pilar didn’t know that his distinguished guest was estimating the size of the fortress, the positions of the cannons, the defenses, and the distance between the barracks by pacing it out. He thought the Count might have sprained his hip while riding.

They climbed to the top of the castle. Behind the crenellations of the city wall, dark-skinned Tagalog sentries stood with spears next to gleaming cannons. The cannons were all cast in bronze and mounted on four-wheeled carriages. The largest was a 42-pounder, enshrined on a separate gun platform. Judging by the patina on the cannon, it had been here for many years. But what caught Rando’s attention was a pivot mount with a sloping slide that gave it a firing arc of nearly 180°. This didn’t look like a Spanish creation. Weiss carefully examined the huge wooden gun carriage and the iron cladding on its surface. The iron had not yet rusted, indicating it was newly made. Weiss raised his hand over his head and felt inside the muzzle. No rifling. It was just an ordinary smoothbore, front-loading cannon mounted on this suspicious carriage.

“Look at this thing,” Captain Pilar interrupted his thoughts.

“Isn’t that a stove?” Weiss noticed a brick furnace every few gun positions on the platform. “I recognize that thing next to it. It’s a bellows used by the Chinese.”

“Exactly. It’s a wind furnace. Your extensive knowledge is truly astonishing to us.”

“If this is a furnace for throwing grenades, I don’t understand why you need such a fancy bellows. Isn’t the normal practice to set up a brazier? Does the colonel hope the soldiers on the platform can also get a hot meal from this? That’s not a proper way to do things. It will spoil them all.”

“You are greatly mistaken,” the captain’s sweaty face showed the smug smile of a fool who thinks he knows everything. “This is the Governor’s masterpiece, a novelty he came up with after listening to that Japanese fellow’s idea. What’s being roasted on this furnace is neither bread nor soup, but cannonballs. Have you ever seen such a thing? Before firing, you have to put the cannonball on the furnace and heat it red-hot.”

“No, this is the first time I’ve heard of it.”

“Then you shoot it out, and it sets the target on fire. It’s a great idea, isn’t it? Maybe we should also wrap the cannonballs in lemongrass, sprinkle some salt and pepper on them, and turn them into fragrant roast chickens. Then we can fire them over, and the Dutch and the English will surely be grateful for our gift. Are you tired? Let me take you down.”

Rando thought to himself that this captain’s knowledge was indeed limited, or rather, it was because he had always been stationed in the Philippines, where he had only witnessed low-level warfare with the natives. Red-hot incendiary projectiles were not a particularly new thing in Europe.

But it was good. The defenders of Manila being a bunch of rookies was much more advantageous to his side than a group of Thirty Years’ War veterans.