Chapter 232: The Submarine
“A boat that can sail underwater?!” Lando narrowed his eyes. This was his second meeting with Mr. de Fernando at the tavern. The news that the shipyard was building a submarine was truly astonishing. While Mr. Weiss Lando had never been a diligent student, he still recalled reading about the Turtle from the American Revolutionary War in a popular history book during his middle school days. Although he had little interest in it, he remembered that it could submerge and navigate, and had once attempted to destroy a British naval warship.
“That’s ridiculous. How does a boat that sinks to the bottom float back up? You must have had too much of that local liquor.”
“I swear to God, I haven’t,” Captain Fernando said, anxious that the gold coins in his pocket might fly away. He proceeded to describe in detail the secrets of the mysterious submarine, which had already been built and had undergone one sea trial.
According to Captain Fernando’s description, the small submarine was “like a shark” and had a crew of eight. Its design was very simple, lacking facilities like ballast tanks, and thus no need for flooding or draining. The submarine was lowered directly into the sea by a crane. Through careful calculation of buoyancy and weight, using four external iron ballast weights and four leather bags “filled with oil,” the submarine could suspend itself at a depth of half a Spanish fathom, about 0.8 meters, when fully loaded. At this depth, the observation tower at the bow was just above the water’s surface, allowing for observation of the sea. The submarine was propelled by the crew turning a propeller by hand and steered with a rudder. When it needed to surface, it simply jettisoned the ballast weights. Of course, at that point, the submarine could no longer submerge and had to return to port to be re-equipped with the weights.
“A boat that can stay underwater is certainly impressive, but how do you plan to use it in combat? You obviously can’t fire cannons from underwater.”
“Indeed,” Captain Fernando agreed. “That involves another of Mr. Ko-san’s mysterious new inventions.”
It was, as Lando had expected, a spar torpedo. He had seen the spar torpedo boats built by the Commonwealth at Bo Pu and other places. Since there were no targets worthy of their deployment, these boats were currently assigned to harbor defense.
In his view, this sort of weapon was almost useless and operating it was extremely dangerous, practically a suicide mission. It only made some sense for a navy like the Commonwealth’s, which possessed steam power and armor-plating capabilities.
“This weapon is very cleverly designed. It can easily pierce the hull of an enemy ship. After attaching the torpedo, the submarine can quietly slip away. It will explode thirty minutes later, very punctually,” Captain Fernando said with great enthusiasm, seemingly oblivious to the immense danger involved.
Absolutely mad! Mr. Lando thought. Using a man-powered submarine without even a periscope to carry out a spar torpedo attack was like a 17th-century kamikaze mission! Captain Fernando probably had no idea of the grave danger he was facing.
“Could you arrange for me to see this boat?”
“I’m afraid that would be difficult. There are sentries around the dock at all times.”
The man in black gently tapped the gold coins in his hand. Captain Fernando swallowed hard. “I’ll find a way.”
In their subsequent meetings, Captain de Fernando provided almost all the details of the submarine, so much so that Mr. Lando, despite having no drafting experience, was able to sketch a diagram from his descriptions that even he himself couldn’t understand. However, the plan to inspect the submarine at the shipyard never materialized. Mr. Lando decided not to wait any longer. He already knew the general structure of the submarine, and since he had little knowledge of such antiquated weapons, seeing it in person wouldn’t provide much more insight.
Meanwhile, Mr. Genolino’s headache was growing worse. The deadline for the new patrol boat contract was fast approaching, but the recently established munitions factory was like a vacuum, sucking up all the skilled Chinese craftsmen. Genolino found he couldn’t even gather enough blacksmiths to forge nails. To make matters worse, there was now a shortage of iron. If not for the generous delivery of some bent scrap iron from that Paul Ko-san, he had no idea how he would have continued.
Although the iron looked like it had been corroded by seawater, after removing the rust and heating it, the shipyard’s blacksmiths praised it as top-quality malleable wrought iron.
Genolino Pagnio had every reason to curse this damnable job.
Just a few days ago, the Count of Vananova, the most sought-after socialite in all of Manila, had graced the shipyard with his presence aboard the beautiful, swan-like Esmeralda. What a noble and generous man he was! Genolino could have easily repaired his yacht and pocketed a handsome sum of gold. But the nobleman took one look at the crowded slipways and docks, shook his head, and returned to his yacht to cast off. Genolino’s dream of a windfall vanished, and now he could only struggle to complete the patrol boat order before the deadline. He had no desire to be sent back to Havana in the governor’s wrath, to return to his miserable, dead-end life as a shipwright.
To add insult to injury, the governor had also ordered him to expedite the repairs on the submarine Nautilus, forcing Genolino to divert some of his precious manpower. Paul Ko-san’s masterpiece enjoyed special treatment, occupying the shipyard’s only covered dry dock. The governor had generously allocated plenty of iron parts from the munitions factory, as well as thin copper sheets to sheathe the submarine’s hull and well-made copper nails, all rolled by hydraulic presses. Genolino recognized it as high-quality tin brass. But what he didn’t get were the craftsmen he desperately needed. Instead, the governor sent a few soldiers to the shipyard to guard the Nautilus’s dock day and night, to ward off “any suspicious persons.”
The shipyard manager had to recruit men himself. The local natives were both weak and lazy, only capable of manual labor like carrying timber. Fortunately, two days ago, two newly arrived Chinese men had come to the shipyard looking for work. They were even wearing shoes, indicating they weren’t destitute coolies who would have been immediately snatched up by the munitions factory. Both wore short jackets and hats, and their carpentry and painting skills were passable. Genolino particularly noticed their powerful arms; they could carry logs that took two or three Tagalogs to lift, and with no effort. Watching the shipwrights and laborers working frantically, the shipyard manager felt his headache ease slightly. He stepped out of his office, looked up at the darkening sky, and ordered dinner to be served. Mr. Genolino Pagnio’s dinner was not free; to earn their taro soup and watered-down tuba wine, those brutish heathens had to put in a good day’s work.
The night grew deeper.
As was typical in the tropics, a clear mist spread across the night sky, veiling the moon and creating a soft, complete halo around it. The Spanish had never implemented a strict night work system, so after Mr. Genolino retired to his cool, comfortable quarters, the foremen also slipped away to their huts to sleep. Most of the local laborers were drunk, snoring stretched out beneath the slipways.
Faint lights could still be seen in a few places around the shipyard, where fires had been lit with scrap wood and old rope for those working at night. The two Chinese men were still working methodically, the large two-man saw groaning rhythmically in their hands. Mr. Genolino had ordered them to prepare enough timber for the next day. In the distance, by the covered dock, a torch would flare up from time to time as the governor’s soldiers patrolled.
By midnight, however, all the noise in the shipyard had gradually ceased. The two strong Chinese men also slowed their pace, as if they too felt tired and needed rest. They finally dropped the saw and walked towards the dark, looming covered dock. No one saw them; even if they had, they would have just assumed the two were looking for a quiet place to sleep.
Two colonial soldiers sat behind the dock, smoking. Their torches had burned out, but their patrol around the dock had to continue until sunrise when their replacements would arrive. It was a tedious and exhausting duty. The strange, olive-shaped vessel under the roof had initially piqued their curiosity, but guarding it all day had become incredibly boring.
Soft footsteps approached from the front. One soldier looked up alertly, his hand gripping the matchlock rifle leaning against the dock wall. He quickly relaxed his grip. It was just two Chinese craftsmen coming off their shift. They were wearing hats, and the moonlight shone on their bare, sweat-glistening torsos, their shabby jackets slung over their shoulders.
The two colonial soldiers were Pampangan recruits from Macabebe and didn’t understand Chinese, but they were accustomed to the pitiful, fawning attitude that local Chinese displayed towards colonial soldiers. The Chinese men who approached them were bowing, clutching their clothes in their hands. They pointed to the soldiers’ cigars and made gestures for a light. The Pampangan mercenary, certain they were asking for a light, took out his flint and tinder pouch, dangled it in front of the Chinese men, then put it back in his pocket, waiting to see their disappointed and pained expressions. This little game was much more amusing than getting whipped by the sergeant on the training ground.