Chapter 293: The Spy

The temperature in the drying room was not low, and sweat seeped out from the Marquis’s curly hair again. He looked at the rows of shells on the wooden shelves, a thoughtful expression on his face, as if he were muttering to himself, “Count Tilly fired eighteen thousand shells a day at Magdeburg, and even so, it took him five months for the city to fall. The whole of Bavaria, as well as Genoa and Venice, melted down all their iron and lead, and all the foundries were busy casting shells for his army.”

“If he had the cannons and shells you see before you, he would only need to use one-twentieth of the shells to destroy the heretics’ city defenses, and it would probably take only one day,” Hale said, bowing humbly. Having finished playing the role of the fanatical scientific genius, he reverted to the calm and devout priest. “To serve the cause of the Lord is my highest honor.”

“You were a bit hasty, Marcos,” Hale said, after seeing off the Marquis’s party as their large oared boat cast off and headed down the Pasig River towards Manila. He climbed into his carriage and began to lecture the smuggler sailor who was so devoted to him. “Those blockheads who can’t figure out how to do their jobs deserve to die. But you will leave the wrong impression on my guests. They came here to see a factory they have never seen before, where everything is orderly and methodical; not some plantation where an overseer can beat a slave to death at will. That’s common in the colony, not new, and of no value.”

“I’m so sorry, sir,” Marcos stood there at a loss, until Hale pulled him into the carriage. “These terrible things keep happening at the factory. I was so scared when you were going to take the Spaniards to see the powder mill. Luckily, their brains were overheated, and they didn’t go.”

“What happened at the powder mill? Did something happen in the fulminate of mercury room?”

“No, your student is managing that place very well. It was the grinding workshop. A rotating drum for mixing gunpowder caught fire. Fortunately, as you instructed, the humidifying pipe for mixing was connected to the fire hose, so the fire was quickly extinguished, and there was no explosion. Four people were injured. One was hit on the head by a falling drum stand; the doctor thinks he can be saved. The other three have severe burns, I’m afraid—”

“Perhaps I can still make it in time to apply ointment to them,” Hale’s tone sounded as if he were saying, “Tomorrow is Friday, prepare fish soup for my dinner.”

“Any other bad news? Did anyone else die anywhere else?”

“A manual punch press was damaged in the pyrotechnics processing workshop. The worker responsible has been dealt with according to your regulations. Mr. Gebser is in a temper, complaining that the workers assigned to him are hopelessly stupid, all uncivilized savages. The pass rate for the fuze spot check has improved slightly since last month, with sixty percent firing effectively.”

“Tell that unwashed German that I’m paying him the highest wages in the factory not just for his skills. If he can’t teach the apprentices assigned to him properly, I will personally punish him. What do I need most now? Talented people who understand technology, more precious than any gold or gems. Marcos, I could never find another talent like you.”

Marcos was made uncomfortable by this praise. “No, sir, in fact, I didn’t even graduate from middle school—”

“At least you went to middle school, Marcos. In the era we are in now, that is remarkable. I don’t know why fate has brought us here, but I know that the education you received in the past is enough to look down on the most learned scholars in Spain today. You can read, write, and do arithmetic. You understand the principles of cost and efficiency, know statistics, and can read the formulas and process flow charts I write for you. What more can I ask for? Yes, I have taken a few students. They are very smart, but I have to teach them from the decimal point and the principle of the lever, bit by bit. That is harder than building Rome. Marcos, you are my right and left hand. Without you, who can I rely on? Your 17th-century compatriots are blinded by religious superstition. They see a machine and think it’s a demon, only knowing to kneel on the ground and pray not to be eaten. As for the Spaniards? Those who only read the Bible, receive communion, and shout all day about executing heretics, or the lazy and stupid ones who are only interested in making money and producing mixed-blood bastards? Marcos, this era allows us to rewrite history and accomplish a great cause. But the beginning is difficult. You must help me.”

After saying this, Hale stuck his head out of the carriage to look, leaving a flattered Fernando Marcos sitting in a daze inside. The Tagalog coachman didn’t understand English, but seeing the priest stick his head out of the carriage, he was so frightened that he whipped the horse several times. The carriage immediately charged forward, scattering a group of Chinese workers who had gathered to receive their meals.

The Japanese mercenaries ate from the large pots in the barracks. As for the thousands of workers and laborers, neither Hale nor the colonial government bothered to worry about their food. For the level of social management in the 17th century, this was also beyond their capabilities. In the end, the factory’s meals were contracted to the Chinese officials of the Parian, the brothers Huang Jian and Huang Xiang, who had volunteered to take on this business. Hale had originally hoped they would set up a canteen in the factory, but the head chef sent by the Huang family was so scared by the roar of the huge machines and the sight of barrel after barrel of gunpowder being transported in and out that he refused to stay in the factory. The daily meals could only be prepared in the Parian and then shipped to the factory by boat. If the weather was bad and the boats couldn’t travel on the Pasig River, if they were lucky, they would get dry rations transported by ox-cart. If they were unlucky, all the factory laborers would go hungry. Marcos had argued with the Huang brothers several times about this, but he could never persuade them to open a canteen in the factory. As for other Chinese contractors, none were as wealthy as these two brothers, able to advance the food expenses for the thousands of workers in the factory for a month and also reduce food poisoning incidents like diarrhea to a minimum.

Ji Mide stood in the line for food distribution, surrounded by hungry workers shouting and cursing in various languages. Weiss Lando had to use some effort to get him into the Huang family’s food delivery team without attracting attention. The soup ladle in his hand never stopped, but his eyes were constantly scanning the factory surroundings. As he was looking at the departing carriage, he suddenly heard an old man sent by the Huang family scolding, “Young man, don’t be lazy.”

The old man was scolding two half-grown boys who had also come to deliver food. He pointed to several wooden barrels full of rice and soup behind him, then to the casting and forging workshop in the distance, which was spewing thick smoke. “Carry them over, hurry up.”

An idea struck Ji Mide. His hair had grown long enough, and his skin was tanned dark. Apart from being a bit sturdier, he looked no different from any other ordinary Chinese in the Parian. He casually handed the soup ladle to a boy beside him. “Don’t be lazy, young man.” He squeezed out of the crowd, picked up a shoulder pole, and, carrying the wooden barrels, strode towards the casting and forging workshop.

By the time Hale’s carriage arrived at the powder mill, the three burned workers had long since breathed their last. Their bodies were covered with straw mats, ready to be carried to the collective cemetery behind the factory for burial. Accidents, which had occurred several times a day when the factory was first built, were now down to one every few days. People were no longer surprised.

The workers’ casualties were far less of a concern to Hale than the damage to the equipment and workshops. To avoid explosions that could harm others, the powder mill buildings were kept at a sufficient distance from the other workshops, built on the banks of the San Juan River, more than a thousand meters upriver. Because the workshops had been burned down and blown up several times and rebuilt, the outer walls and roofs were made of cheap woven bamboo strips, giving them a very simple appearance. The roof was covered with layers of abaca cloth, coated with wood tar and guba resin for waterproofing. The floor, however, was meticulously laid with wooden planks, with every crack carefully sealed with asphalt to prevent gunpowder particles from falling in. This meticulously clean floor was now covered with patches of water stains and messy footprints. The workers were busy cleaning up the water stains and collecting the scattered oilcloth fire hoses.

The completely burned wooden mixing drum was just a pile of wreckage, neatly stacked against the wall near the site. This was the rule in the Manila arsenal: no one could dispose of these remains without Lord Paul’s permission. The originally chaotic scene had been basically cleaned up by the workers who had recovered from their fright.

“Was No. 1 black powder being mixed in this drum?”

“Yes.”

“According to the regulations, water should be added to the drum during mixing. Did they forget?”

“It’s ridiculous, really. A worker complained of thirst and pulled off the gutta-percha hose from the humidifier to drink water. The others couldn’t wait for him and just started turning the mixing drum. It hadn’t even turned twice before it caught fire. The sulfur powder and charcoal in the nearby barrels also ignited and burned quickly. Luckily, it didn’t cause an explosion.”

“What about that bastard who was drinking water? Is he dead or alive?”

“Still alive. He has some cuts on his head and lost a lot of blood.”

“When he’s mostly recovered, along with the three idiots in confinement today, each will get forty lashes. The punishment will be carried out publicly before dinner, so everyone can see.”

After announcing the punishment for the violators, Lord Paul began to inspect the workshop again, sometimes in Spanish, sometimes switching to broken Hokkien to give instructions or reprimands to a bowing foreman. The foremen then relayed the orders to the workers in various dialects. After a period of commotion, the ground and fire hoses were quickly cleaned up, the machines started to rumble again with the waterwheels, and the workshop gradually returned to order.

“The production of No. 1 powder will probably be suspended for seven or eight days. It depends on when the carpentry workshop can make a new drum.”

Marcos nodded in agreement.

“For now, we’ll focus on producing No. 2 and No. 3 black powder. It’s not entirely a bad thing. Our sulfur supply is always insufficient, so it’s good to save some for now.”