Chapter 1067 - Tacit Understanding

"For those truly without options," Lu Yang said, "Master Lu maintains properties in Fujian and Zhejiang. They could be sent there—to work as tenant farmers, reclaim wasteland."

Sun Yuanhua received this with skepticism. He hailed from Jiading, after all, and knew the Zhejiang landscape intimately. Northern Zhejiang was fertile country, yes, but its fields had long since been cultivated to the horizon—every tillable acre claimed generations ago. Southern Zhejiang offered only mountains, its valleys choked with people competing for scarce land. The common folk there had to seek their fortunes elsewhere: as laborers, merchants, or tenant farmers in foreign provinces. As for Fujian, though he had never visited, he knew its reputation well enough—a province of peaks and precipices that could not produce enough grain to feed its own population, hemorrhaging emigrants every year.

No, Master Lu's collection of refugees surely had another destination entirely. One needed only to observe the trestle bridge extending into the bay to understand. Beyond the necessity of berthing so many large vessels, what purpose could such an immense structure serve? It was clearly designed for moving people by ship.

The thought of ships drew Sun Yuanhua's gaze toward the vessels moored at the pier. His eyelids twitched involuntarily.

The distance was considerable, but the weather had blessed them with crystalline clarity. Against the pale blue sky, the ships stood out in sharp relief.

Alongside the trestle bridge, amid the scattering of small fishing boats common to these waters, rode more than a dozen massive vessels—each displacing over two hundred liao! Sun Yuanhua had long understood the critical importance of naval power for operations in Liaodong. Cross-sea support and maritime maneuvering were essential to any serious campaign. During his tenure as Governor of Dengzhou and Laizhou, he had labored tirelessly to expand and strengthen his fleet, even dispatching agents to Joseon to purchase large warships.

Yet here, gathered practically beneath his nose, was a fleet of such scale as to make his efforts seem modest by comparison.

He suppressed his astonishment and excitement, rubbed his eyes, and studied the vessels more carefully.

Though the distance blurred the finer details, their excellent condition was apparent. The sails and rigging looked nearly new. Flags snapped crisply at stern—blue and white bilingual banners. On the decks, tarpaulin-covered protrusions suggested the unmistakable shapes of artillery.

"These ships belong to Manor Lord Lu?" Sun Yuanhua asked, affecting a casual tone.

"Indeed," Lu Yang replied. "They all fall under Manor Lord Lu's jurisdiction. Would Sir care to inspect them more closely?"

Lu Wenyuan had no intention of concealing his true identity—not when deeper cooperation was imminent. Besides, if he failed to display some muscle, the other party might never trust him sufficiently.

"Very well," Sun Yuanhua nodded.

Under Lu Yang's guidance, they proceeded to the trestle bridge. Nine naval vessels were docked at Qimu Island's pier: one Type 901 gunboat and eight special service boats. Because the Type 901's appearance diverged so dramatically from conventional ship designs, the Daishuang had been positioned in the center, flanked by twin rows of the special service boats. Her deck cannons and smokestack alike were camouflaged beneath tarpaulins and fishing nets.

Sun Yuanhua immediately boarded one of the special service boats. Its Guang ship design—the Cantonese junk style—was uncommon in these waters. Along the coast from Jiangsu and Zhejiang to Liaodong, shallow shoals dominated the littoral, making flat-bottomed Sha ships the dominant vessel type. The Dengzhou and Laizhou Navy included many such craft. But these sand boats were slow, with shallow drafts—as warships, they enjoyed an advantage only because their primary adversary, the Later Jin, fielded almost no navy at all.

He examined the modified poop deck, masts, and rigging with keen interest. What particularly impressed him was the deck itself, polished to such brilliance that it could reflect a man's image. Such a thing seemed beyond possibility in his experience.

Ascending to the poop deck, Sun Yuanhua developed an intense fascination with the steering wheel that controlled the ship's rudder. In this era, sailing vessels—whether Chinese or foreign—relied on tillers for navigation. This convenient and responsive device immediately captured his attention.

He tried turning the wheel, found it remarkably light and agile, and clicked his tongue in wonder.

Then, at his request, Lu Yang ordered the tarpaulins removed from the cannons. The 24-pounder smoothbore cannon and the 68-pounder carronade mounted on the open gun deck were revealed in their full glory.

Sun Yuanhua considered himself an artillery expert. Though his knowledge derived mainly from Western missionaries who could hardly be called professionals, he had access to an extensive library of Western firearm treatises and practical examples, and had maintained long-term contact and cooperation with Portuguese soldiers. His ability to identify and evaluate artillery was unmatched in the Imperial Court.

He recognized at a glance that the cannons before him dwarfed the Hongyipao—the Red Barbarian Cannons purchased from Macau—which the Imperial Court revered as "Heavy Weapons of the State." Even setting aside those massive short-barreled heavy guns, the muzzle of what appeared to be the smaller long cannon was substantially larger than any Hongyipao.

"Does this cannon fire a 24-jin shot?" Sun Yuanhua asked. At the time, Chinese translations of Western artillery works did not convert weights and measures; pounds became jin directly, and length units became construction chi. Though Sun Yuanhua was an expert, he ultimately could not read Portuguese or Italian, and so perpetuated the universal error.

Lu Yang understood this well. Despite the incorrect unit of measurement, the man's ability to estimate the cannon's approximate caliber merely by inspection marked him as remarkably professional.

"A 24-jin shot, precisely."

"And that large cannon there? How many jin is its shot?"

"That one fires a 68-jin shot."

"Sixty-eight jin?!" Sun Yuanhua could not contain his shock. In his understanding, a Hongyipao firing a 12-pound shot was already a "giant cannon." Yet on this ship, 24-jin shots were standard, and 68-jin shots existed as well!

"Since it fires a 24-jin shot," Sun Yuanhua pursued, "presumably the powder charge must be substantial." He studied the cannon's body. "I notice the barrel appears quite thin and is not cast in copper. Is there no danger of explosion?"

The Ming Dynasty had introduced Western artillery but had failed to adopt standardized training and usage protocols. Problems abounded—from powder charge quantities and firing frequency to forced cooling of barrels. Coupled with various material and manufacturing defects in domestically copied cannons, barrel explosions occurred with alarming regularity.

To ensure safe operation, the only recourse when casting cannons was to increase barrel thickness. The result was extraordinarily heavy pieces. This trend reached its absurd conclusion during the Opium Wars, when cannons weighing several thousand jin emerged—firing shots equivalent to European 12-pounders, or even mere 9- or 6-pounders.

Lingao's smoothbore cannons, by contrast, were manufactured using integral casting, heat treatment, hammer forging, and precision drilling. The raw materials and processing methods employed were centuries ahead of their time, producing artillery far superior to traditionally cast pieces.

"It matters not," Lu Yang smiled faintly. "Sixty-eight-jin shots pose no problem. We could manage shots exceeding a hundred jin."

"Shots exceeding a hundred jin!" Sun Yuanhua repeated in astonishment. A 68-jin shot was already terrifying enough—and here they spoke of surpassing even that!

He studied the artillery before him with fresh incredulity. The smooth muzzle, the gleaming cannon body—the visual impact was overwhelming. The impression the entire piece conveyed was, surprisingly, one of elegance.

His gaze descended to the carriage beneath the cannon. It was not the Western-style four-wheeled wooden mount he had personally authorized, but rather an exquisite iron gun carriage bristling with iron rods, wheels, and various brass and iron components whose purposes eluded him. Some seemed vaguely familiar—reminiscent of diagrams in Illustrations and Explanations of the Wonderful Machines of the Far West—but not quite identical.

What function could this collection of objects beneath the cannon serve?

As if answering his unspoken question, Lu Yang released the travel lock and gave the cannon a gentle push.

The massive piece began to rotate under the hand of this young man who appeared rather unimposing. It was clear he had not even exerted his full strength.

Sun Yuanhua had served in Liaodong and witnessed actual combat. He understood immediately what such effortless directional adjustment meant in battle. Neither the Portuguese nor the missionaries had ever offered a solution to this problem!

Then Lu Yang rapidly turned a handwheel, and the cannon's barrel gradually elevated. Sun Yuanhua watched, dumbfounded. The Portuguese adjusted muzzle elevation by hammering wooden wedges—a slow process where the slightest irregularity in force could send the angle too far.

Everyone spoke of the wonderful machines the West possessed that China lacked. But the marvels aboard this ship far exceeded anything Western.

By now, his vague suspicions had crystallized into certainty. Master Lu was a "Short-haired Thief"—a Kun Thief!

Who else in the world could create such exquisite and wondrous machinery? Tales of events in Guangdong had reached Sun Yuanhua's ears in some form—especially given his frequent correspondence with the Jesuits in Macau and his employment of Portuguese soldiers. His intelligence regarding the Senate was far more detailed than what ordinary Court officials possessed. He had heard of the Short-haired Thieves' strange innovations: the "Big Iron Ship," the "Iron Fast Ship," the "Big Cannons," the "Fast Guns."

Though the vessel before him was a Guang ship, these cannons were unmistakably Australian goods! Master Lu and this young man were both Australians; this stockade on Qimu Island was a genuine "Den of Short-haired Thieves"!

They had built their fortress here and labored painstakingly to take in refugees—obviously to transport them to Hainan Island. That southern frontier island was sparsely populated. The Portuguese had reported that the Short-haired Thieves worked constantly to attract immigrants from the mainland. The Short-haired Thieves on Qimu Island surely shared the same objective!

Sun Yuanhua's assessment of the "Short-haired Thieves" was simple: they were merely a group of merchants hoping to trade and profit. So long as Great Ming did not obstruct their commerce, they would not harm the empire. They were infinitely preferable to the Tartars—those ferocious, evil creatures capable only of robbery and slaughter.

From every source—the Portuguese, travelers from Guangdong—the impression of the Australians was favorable: skilled in industry, adept at commerce, trustworthy in business, honest and reliable. The Church, in particular, praised the "Australians" as though angels had descended to earth.

Though he understood the truth, Sun Yuanhua felt no urgency to expose it. Sometimes playing the fool was wiser. Moreover, he detected no malice toward him from these people.

They had undertaken immense trouble to rescue him from the rebel army. Clearly, they harbored some design. He would watch and wait to discover what exactly they intended. In any case, he, Sun Yuanhua, had nothing left to lose.

(End of Chapter)