Chapter 226: The Cannon

Weiss raised his binoculars. Three thick wooden poles had been erected diagonally in the battery’s breastwork, their tops fixed together with iron. A pulley system hung from the top, with a hook at the end. The Spaniards were directing coolies to install a winch with ropes next to it. He studied this crane intently for a while, then turned his attention to the beach below the battery. The most striking feature was a road paved with wooden planks on the beach. Colorfully dressed colonial soldiers gathered by the side of the wooden path. Some held spears, while most brandished bamboo whips and matchlock fork rests, driving a large group of local coolies. The coolies were bare-chested, either carrying or pulling ropes that drew the observer’s eye to the heavy load they were hauling. A black cannon. This was no longer an old Spanish bronze cannon that had been bored and modified. It was larger than any cannon on any fortress or ship in Macau or Manila at this time. Perhaps only the main gun mounted on the Australians’ steam warship could compare. The black iron barrel had a peculiar curved shape, like an enlarged soda water bottle. Compared to the thick, sturdy barrel, the triangular truss frame was extremely simple, with four pitifully small iron wheels underneath. If not for the wooden planks, this clumsy and incongruous contraption would have surely gotten stuck in the sand of the beach.

“When did you spot it?” Weiss asked.

“Before sunrise, at 5:15, a ship was spotted,” the Special Reconnaissance Team member said. Weiss looked through his binoculars in the direction he pointed. Sure enough, a single-masted sloop had furled its sails and was anchored near the coast southwest of the fortress. “The Spaniards have been busy laying a simple road since then. They set up the crane an hour ago, and the cannon was just unloaded from the ship with a pulley.”

The binoculars turned back to the cannon being dragged. The soldiers shouted, and the bamboo whips and fork rests occasionally fell on the coolies’ heads and backs. The coolies’ skin was covered with welts, and they constantly showed expressions of pain under the whipping and heavy pressure. Weiss was unmoved by this cruel scene. He searched his memory. The memory of being taken by his father to play at the Fort Point battery as a child was too distant. However, he clearly remembered visiting Fort Sumter and Fort Moultrie in Charleston during his army training at Fort Jackson. That time, the recruit Weiss Rando was stunned by the enormous Dahlgren guns. Now he was once again amazed by similar cannons and gun carriages. Despite his lack of professional knowledge of antique ordnance, Weiss at least knew that those Civil War-era fortress cannons were made to sink armored ships. If the Esmeralda were unlucky enough to be hit by one, the consequences were easy to imagine.

“If I gave the order now, could you take one of them out?” Weiss asked suddenly.

“Can’t hit them. The target is over two thousand meters away,” the sniper replied. “But if we set up a position over there, it would be no problem.” He pointed to a sparse thicket south of the villa.

Weiss shook his head. The tower, this excellent observation post, could not be abandoned. He now regretted not having added a few Barretts or McMillan .50s to the Mackerel’s cargo hold, or even just an M2 heavy machine gun. He opened the cover of the speaking tube on the wall and pulled the bell again. “Mimi, is that you? Bring the large telescope and the camera to the top of the tower. Right now.”

“God knows when these bastards will start test firing,” he muttered, closing the speaking tube.

When the Count returned to the shooting gallery, Captain Pilar and his several colleagues were completely drunk, lying sprawled on the lounge chairs, snoring loudly. De Andrade was engaged in a heated discussion with the mayor about Eastern art and idolatry, occasionally quoting famous arguments from St. Augustine and Aquinas. The Count signaled a servant to bring him a lounge chair and sat down next to Alfonso on the veranda.

Weiss casually sized up this newly famous person who was being talked about all over Manila. The gold-embroidered uniform was newly made, making his newly acquired medals and sash particularly dazzling. Alfonso spoke first, his voice already tinged with alcohol.

“Count, is this kind of drinking your genius creation? Rum with iced fruit juice, it’s so refreshing, like a cool cloud.”

“Back home, someone once said that if I had become a tavern keeper instead, I would have been even more outstanding than fighting the heathens,” Weiss made a gesture, ordering a servant to bring over a shaker and some kvass chilled with well water. “Talk to me about natural philosophy, sir.”

“Natural philosophy? My dear Fannanuova, I am no doctor or scholar. I am a soldier who wins God’s favor by fighting, just like you.”

“No, you heard what Pilar said. Since how to kill a man faster with a bullet and a sword is natural philosophy, then how to kill a hundred men with one cannonball should be even more in the realm of natural philosophy.”

“You mean Paul’s cannon? That’s indeed a delightful thing, just like your wine. As long as you don’t happen to be standing in front of the muzzle yourself.”

“Then tell me about it.”

“Tell you what? Paul’s cannon, or Paul the cannon-founder?”

“Tell me everything, my dear Alfonso, tell me everything you know,” Weiss said, thrusting a large glass of cocktail into his hand. “These things are really interesting. Who doesn’t want to win more merits on the battlefield?”

“Speaking of this Mr. Paul, he is truly mysterious…” Major Alfonso was in a talkative mood, stimulated by the alcohol.

“He’s still so mysterious even though you’ve worked with him?”

“Of course, of course, I have indeed worked with him. But to be honest, this is a man whose inner thoughts you can never know. Perhaps he is truly as pious as the priests say, to the point of being indifferent to the outside world.”

“Isn’t he just? This wonderful person didn’t even participate in the victory parade. To give up such a great honor is truly incomprehensible.”

“He doesn’t care about these things. Besides, he left on that fast sloop shortly after returning to Manila. No one in the Philippines, except the Governor, knows where he went. He does whatever he wants, and His Excellency the Governor always unconditionally supports Mr. Paul. He is now the Governor’s closest friend,” the major said with a slightly lewd smile. “But every time he comes back, there are always some surprising new tricks. You just wait and see.”

At this very moment, hundreds of nautical miles away from Manila, on the deserted west coast of the northern tip of Samar Island, the chants of coolies and curses in a mixture of Spanish and the local dialect echoed in the air.

On this deserted and dangerous coastline, full of reefs and shoals, three sailing ships of different sizes were anchored. On the sterncastle of one of the small single-masted sloops, Evaristo Okamoto was watching the coolies struggling in the shallows. They were swaying under the scorching sun and the merciless whips of the overseers, yet they had to exert all their strength to pull the ropes that were mercilessly rubbing against their skin.

In the waist-deep shallows, lay a huge pile of wreckage. Rusted iron frames, covered with dead marine life, jutted into the air. On these iron frames, pieces of planking, their color no longer discernible, were scattered about.

The wreckage of the 901-type gunboat Nongchao, which had capsized and sunk off the west coast of the northern tip of Samar Island during Operation Hunger, had been washed ashore by a recent typhoon.

Evaristo Okamoto was very interested in Operation Hunger. From the Spanish prisoners who had been ransomed and returned to Manila, and from his own “fiancée,” he had learned many details of the operation, and also that an Australian ship had sunk off Samar Island.

For Evaristo Okamoto, a ship was a treasure trove, especially for someone like him who had come to this time and space with nothing. He immediately took his men to Samar Island and quickly found the location where the Nongchao had sunk.

However, the Navy’s thorough disposal of the Nongchao had left him helpless against the wreckage. The remains of the Nongchao lay on the underwater sand and reef, and even at low tide, it was three or four meters below the surface. Moreover, the huge breach in the hull showed that the structural parts of the ship had already been destroyed. With the technical capabilities he possessed, it was impossible to salvage it. Even if it could be salvaged, it had no repair value, and he lacked the ability to repair it anyway.

After several explorations using a diving bell, Evaristo Okamoto found nothing useful and could only return empty-handed. However, the sunken Nongchao in the waters of Samar Island was always on his mind.

Evaristo Okamoto had no doubt that the so-called Australians had already sabotaged the Nongchao, but this sabotage had been carried out after the Nongchao had capsized and sunk. This meant that their destruction and dismantling of the ship could not have been very thorough. In other words, this ship was still a treasure trove—provided he could get his hands on it.

Paul He Er’s salvage conditions were very unfavorable. He had no diving equipment, and descending with a primitive diving bell, there was very little he could do.

However, God seemed to be favoring his cause. Shortly after the last typhoon, a ship passing near Samar Island brought news that the wreckage of a strange large ship had been pushed onto the beach by the storm. The ship’s ribs were actually made of iron!

Upon hearing the news, Evaristo Okamoto immediately set out with a fleet. He loaded hundreds of coolies, a large amount of ropes, winches, and pulleys onto the ships, and even brought a complete blacksmith’s shop. He was prepared to completely dismantle the wreckage of this ship on Samar Island and see what he could get from it.