Chapter 170: The 400-Liao Guangzhou-Style Ship

Wen Desi followed Shipwright Zhang on a tour of the vessels under construction. Over the years, he had built countless Western ship models, though Chinese seagoing vessels remained more of a casual hobby than a serious pursuit. The frustration lay in how far domestic research lagged behind overseas scholarship—considerably less professional and woefully incomplete. Even scale models of ancient Chinese ships could more readily be found in foreign collections than anywhere in China itself. The available resources were simply too scarce to work with properly.

The shipyard possessed no drydock, only slipway racks for launching. Wen Desi was well aware that drydock technology in China dated back to the Northern Song Dynasty's Xining era, when such facilities had been used to repair imperial barges. But subsequent usage had been exceedingly rare—an historical anomaly at best. Without Shen Kuo's meticulous records in the Dream Pool Essays, the practice might have been lost to time entirely.

"How do you launch ships without proper slipways or docks?" Wen Desi asked, genuinely curious about ancient methods.

"We coat the beach with slippery mud, then haul the vessel out with ropes."

Brilliantly simple. Wen Desi nodded appreciatively. The old saying about the wisdom of the common people being inexhaustible was not merely rhetoric—it was lived experience, passed down through generations of practical problem-solving.

The ship before them stood roughly seventy percent complete. The hull had taken shape, but no deck planking had yet been laid. With his admittedly limited knowledge of ancient ship design, Wen Desi recognized it immediately as a Guangchuan—a Guangzhou-style ship. These were among the largest Chinese seagoing vessels: wide at the top and narrow at the bottom, featuring a distinctive "virtual tail" at the stern. Their most characteristic element was the centerline-mounted drop-keel that extended below the hull proper. This drop-board dramatically reduced rolling and leeway, making it the Guangchuan's signature trait. By his estimation, this particular vessel measured roughly 400 liao—the maximum size the Ming government permitted for civilian ships. Chinese shipwrights could obviously construct thousand-ton vessels when they wished, but excessive size created operational headaches: harder to evade authorities, more difficult to access shallow harbors.

Wen Desi studied the ship's proportions and estimated its dimensions: approximately twenty-seven meters in length, over five meters in beam, with a displacement of around seventy tons. The measurements aligned with other 400-liao ships he had read about in technical literature—apparently the design had become fairly standardized over time.

"Do you work from chuanshu?" he asked, referring to the traditional ship books that codified construction specifications. "From ship books?"

Shipwright Zhang's face reddened with embarrassment. "No ship book," he muttered.

Wen Desi knew the man was guarding his trade secrets—as any skilled craftsman would. But he also knew that without impressing Zhang, he would face endless evasions and half-truths. There was nothing for it but to demonstrate that he already possessed knowledge worth protecting. He cleared his throat and, speaking in Cantonese, recited a string of precise figures:

"400-liao warship specifications: length 8 zhang 6 chi 9 cun; beam 1 zhang 7 chi; labor 2,487..."

Before he could finish, Shipwright Zhang dropped to his knees, his weathered face filled with terror. "My... my... lord..."

"Rise," Wen Desi said calmly. "Don't be afraid."

"My lord already knows—"

"When you reach Bopu and see our iron ships, great and small, you will begin to understand the true depths of worldly ingenuity. What is one petty ship book compared to that?" Wen Desi allowed himself a private thought: It's just basic information that ancient ship enthusiasts like "Nanchuan Ji" have already published.

"Yes, yes," Zhang said, climbing to his feet and brushing off his knees. He recognized now that this lord was no mere curious official—he was an expert in his own right. And the mention of iron ships he had never seen stirred something in Zhang's chest: genuine excitement, professional curiosity. From that moment, his explanations became far more forthcoming.

This nearly completed vessel was double-masted with a fir hull—a detail that puzzled Wen Desi, since the books he had read claimed Guangchuan were primarily built of "ironwood," specifically Mesua ferrea. Their captured Fubo was also a Guangchuan, and though it was not ironwood either, it at least used the same general class of hardwood: lychee wood.

Zhang explained that it came down purely to economics. Ironwood was expensive, while fir grew abundantly and could be had cheaply—yet still possessed adequate structural strength for the vessel's intended purpose. According to Zhang, a Cantonese merchant had ordered this particular ship for regular Nanyang trade routes, operating on an unusual business model: buy a new ship for each voyage, load it with cargo, sail to the destination, then sell both the vessel and its goods before returning home on other ships. These were essentially disposable vessels, built to be used once. Materials were minimized accordingly, with cheapness the overriding priority.

"How much does a ship like this cost?"

"Standard price is eight hundred liang. If you want quality timber throughout, add another two hundred."

So one ship ran about a thousand liang of silver. The Navy had indeed been a money furnace since antiquity—some things never changed. Any serious shipbuilding program would clearly need private capital involvement to sustain itself.

Structurally, the hull was divided by twelve bulkheads into thirteen separate compartments. The bulkhead planks were large camphor boards, each over ten centimeters thick. This was the Chinese sailing ship's world-leading innovation: watertight compartmentalization. At the junctions where bulkheads met hull planking, cradling ribs were fixed in place with iron nails. Near the bottom, Wen Desi noticed two drain holes per bulkhead and cradling rib—a detail that surprised him. Surely drain holes would compromise the very watertightness the compartments were meant to provide?

Zhang explained that the drain holes facilitated bilge pumping, allowing water to be channeled and removed efficiently. During actual sailing, they were sealed with specially fitted wooden stoppers.

The hull planking was all fir. Bottom planks measured over twenty centimeters thick, while the hull sides ran about fifteen centimeters. Strake widths varied from eight to twenty centimeters—widest at midships, gradually narrowing toward both bow and stern. Lateral joints were simple butt joints, while longitudinal seams employed flush-rabbet joinery, with gaps filled using traditional caulking. This caulking compound was a mixture of hemp fiber, tung oil, and ground oyster shell—a formula perfected over centuries. The tung oil's chemical properties caused it to polymerize readily, forming a tough waterproof film. Oyster shell, being over ninety percent calcium carbonate, combined most effectively with tung oil when first burnt into lime at high temperatures. The lime's strong bonding properties reacted with the tung oil to produce a calcium soap compound that was extremely resistant to water penetration. All plank joints were additionally secured with iron nails, their holes sealed over with oil putty.

At the third and seventh bulkhead positions stood the fore and main mast steps. These were large camphor blocks fixed firmly to both the bulkheads and the hull itself, featuring two square holes that accepted mast clasps to secure the masts in place. Chinese ships had long featured masts that could be lowered and removed entirely—the mast steps incorporated pivots for this purpose, while the bulkheads contained storage holes where lowered masts could be stowed.

Ballast consisted of beach cobblestones, concentrated primarily in the third and fourth compartments. Both sides of the hold featured stringer frames for the installation of a lower deck, where cargo and crew quarters would eventually be arranged.

The rudder was fashioned from hardwood—even on these disposable ships, craftsmen refused to cut corners on critical components. It was a primitive but effective balanced adjustable-height rudder. The blade itself was pierced with numerous holes, which Zhang explained reduced the steering force required to turn the vessel—yet another design innovation unique to the Guangchuan tradition.

What fascinated Wen Desi most, however, were the shipbuilding materials stockpiled in the workshop, particularly the iron fittings. Chinese ships had employed iron nails since the Warring States period, and the technology had reached full maturity during the Tang and Song dynasties. Seeing these physical examples arranged before him stirred genuine excitement. There were six or seven distinct varieties of nail types alone—shovel nails, square nails, date-stone nails, climbing-head nails, flat-head nails—each precisely designed for specific structural purposes. He also noticed peculiar L-shaped iron fittings: roughly fifty centimeters long, five centimeters wide, and 0.6 centimeters thick, with one end bent at a sharp ninety-degree angle and four small holes punched through the metal. Zhang explained that these were ju clamps, used for connecting external hull planks to the interior bulkheads. The technique was ingeniously simple: slots were pre-cut into the bulkheads while corresponding holes were drilled through the planking. The ju clamp was then hammered from outside, passing through the plank hole and seating firmly into the bulkhead slot. Finally, the clamp's exposed flange was nailed securely to the bulkhead face.

Wen Desi wandered through the ship, mentally calculating whether it might be converted into a sail cruiser. But the vessel was simply too small—the 400-liao class could carry only thirty to forty tons of cargo. As a warship, it would mount six to eight guns at most. For the industrial-scale material transport the Australians required, it was woefully inadequate. And as an exploration vessel, it would prove too slow for practical use. What he really needed was his beloved double-masted schooner.

"Old Zhang," Wen Desi said at last, "what's your professional opinion of red-hair ships?"

"Tall ships. Carry cannons. Don't fear storms or pirates."

"What else?"

"The sail rigging is exquisite," Shipwright Zhang admitted honestly. "They're fast. I've observed red-hair ships for a long time—high masts, much sailcloth, better wind capture. But their true construction secrets remain impenetrable to me."

"Hmm. These things I know."

Shipwright Zhang's eyes suddenly gleamed with barely suppressed hope. But then, understanding that skills were a man's livelihood—and that a lord of such evident knowledge would not easily share it—his expression dimmed again.

Wen Desi smiled. "Let me tell you something. In Australia, where we come from, specialized schools exist solely to teach the art and science of shipbuilding. Everything you and I know about ships—combined—amounts to superficial knowledge compared to what those institutions teach their students. If you're genuinely interested, eventually someone will instruct you in those methods."

Shipwright Zhang immediately fell to his knees again, kowtowing repeatedly until his forehead touched the ground. "If my lord would transmit these secret arts—Zhang Jiqi will be eternally grateful. I will safeguard them with lifelong service!"

"Hmm, rise." Wen Desi found a large flat rock nearby, settled himself upon it, and opened his leather notebook to reveal a detailed ship line drawing.

"Can you build this?"

Shipwright Zhang studied the drawing for a long time, his calloused fingers hovering just above the paper's surface. This was unlike any ship book he had ever encountered: it featured precise proportions and clean, accurate lines rather than the simple outlines traditional chuanshu provided. The unique three-view perspective granted an intuitive understanding of the vessel's dimensions that conventional diagrams simply could not match. He marveled silently—just mastering this drafting technique alone would guarantee a man's livelihood for the rest of his days. These Australians were truly extraordinary people.

He asked questions about the proportions and scale, roughly estimating the design called for a vessel of 1,000 liao. At that size, it was larger than anything Zhang had ever personally constructed.

"I've never built anything this large," he admitted carefully, meeting Wen Desi's eyes. "But I am willing to try."

The design Wen Desi had selected was a double-masted schooner—fast and highly maneuverable. Without armament, fewer than ten crew members could operate her effectively. Besides cargo capacity, she could accommodate thirty passengers in proper berths. It was an excellent design for exploration voyages and maritime patrol duties alike. The famous America had been a double-masted schooner of similar type—the legendary winner of the 1851 yacht race that had sailed to victory with a crew of just nine men. Later, she had served as a Confederate blockade runner during the American Civil War. The specifications called for 170 tons displacement, thirty meters in length, seven-meter beam, and three-meter draft. Armed, she could mount two 24-pounder carronades on the broadside positions plus one 12-pounder long gun on a center pivot mount. With lighter 6-pounders, she could carry six to eight guns in total.

(End of Chapter)