Chapter 1432 - The Secret of the Shipyard

No one noticed when the black-clad man slipped from the third tier of stands. The crowd was immersed in fanatical uproar, followed by a not-so-small riot: the white captain, in his excessive excitement, had broken his seat board and tumbled from the upper tier. Fortunately, he suffered no serious injuries—though he lay stiffly on the ground, groaning in pain alongside those he had crushed in his fall.

An hour later, the captain staggered into a tavern in the Pasig River dock district, ordered a large glass of tuba made from coconut juice—nearly the cheapest alcoholic beverage in the Philippines—and cursed the ruthlessness of fate between swallows.

"Captain Fernando." Someone greeted him. The captain looked up to find a young Chinese man standing before him, wearing a straw hat and a typical Chinese buttoned jacket, though his trousers were European sailor's style. The man seemed to push his pottery wine cup deliberately toward Fernando. The captain's eyes widened, nostrils flaring as he inhaled greedily the aroma of rhubarb liqueur. An unassuming Chinese could actually afford "Princess of Tang" liqueur—quite expensive in Manila!

"My master is in the private room next door. He wishes to treat Mr. Fernando to a few good drinks. Please follow me." The Chinese man turned and walked away. His movement as he picked up his cup was deliberately slow—and beneath the ordinary pottery, Fernando glimpsed something golden. The other had already turned; Fernando reached out, pressed down on the gold coin, and swept it slowly into his sleeve.

Who cares, the captain muttered to himself. I've lost everything already.

He set down his glass, grabbed his hat, and followed the Chinese man toward the rear of the tavern.

Fernando squinted. The shift from the bright outer room into the dark back compartment made his eyes uncomfortable. There were no windows. The door closed behind him; the only light came from a crude coconut-oil lamp flickering on the table. The flame struggled, barely illuminating half the tabletop. As his eyes gradually adapted to the dim, dancing light, he made out a somewhat hunched figure seated behind the table—deliberately avoiding even that faint illumination.

"Please sit, De Fernando." The hunchback, most of his body hidden in shadow, spoke in a deliberately hoarse, altered voice. Captain Fernando took the chair opposite and started slightly: not many in Manila knew his home country, yet this mysterious figure spoke French.

The Chinese man brought cups and plates to Fernando, filled them with liqueur, then retreated to the door, apparently uninterested in any conversation.

"De Fernando, a question about you has been troubling me." If anything could stop Fernando from guzzling the liqueur, it was this mysterious figure's words. "Which God do you believe in? The Vatican's—or the Huguenots'?"

The captain's hand shook, and he didn't notice he had spilled wine across the table. Breaking out of the siege at La Rochelle, risking his life for Muslim pashas on the Barbary Coast and nearly dying from Portuguese cannonballs, transporting goods for the English in Surat only to be attacked by the Dutch East India Company—losing both ship and cargo. He had never mentioned these experiences to anyone, at least not while sober. In Spanish-ruled territories, a Huguenot could expect no fate other than the stake.

"God is the only true God," the captain said slowly.

The figure in the darkness shifted in his chair. Fernando could now see that most of the man's body was wrapped in a black cloak, his face concealed by a black half-mask, revealing only a meticulously trimmed beard.

"Captain Fernando, I know you are a businessman." The black-clad man switched to Spanish, using the formal usted. "A businessman has only one God."

He raised his right hand. The black kidskin glove made Fernando shiver—as if seated opposite him was a non-human monster encased in a black shell. The gloved hand opened, and a handful of ducats clattered onto the table. Several struck the captain's wine glass before falling, producing the unmistakable sound of gold.

"The Gospel of God is indispensable, my friend—especially after a heavy gamble."

Fernando's eager eyes fixed on the coins. Under the flickering, dim light, the entire tabletop seemed to dance with golden brilliance.

"Sir, you wouldn't make up my losses for free, would you?" He swallowed hard, trying to lubricate a throat gone dry, forgetting entirely the fine wine placed before him.

"Under the shed in the Manila shipyard, what kind of ship is there exactly? Why does His Excellency the Governor value it so highly, Mr. De Fernando?"

The private room plunged into silence; only Fernando's heavy, panting breaths could be heard.

"That is His Excellency the Governor's secret—"

"Mr. Salamanca hired you to command that small boat under construction because you are a captain brave enough, and also because you are always short of money." The black-clad man squeezed a chuckle through his teeth. "I want to know: what kind of ship is it exactly, that requires a captain like you—who dares to risk his life—to command it?"

"Brave Captain" Mr. De Fernando felt sweat bead on his forehead. This was the Governor's great secret. In all of Manila, only four people knew the true nature of this ship. If leaked, the consequences would be unimaginable.

"You need money, my friend. I have no ties with Mr. Salamanca or those priests in Manila—and I don't care for their paranoid fanaticism. I simply want to know what that ship and the shipyard are busy with right now." The black-clad man placed a purse on the table, untied its ribbon, grabbed a handful of gold coins, and let them fall one by one through his fingers. With each crisp clink, Fernando's pupils contracted. "I am also a businessman, dear Fernando. This is merely a business transaction. Just a business transaction."

When the black-clad man left the tavern with his Chinese attendant, the sun was setting. They walked out and boarded a canvas-covered oxcart—one of hundreds, if not thousands, in and around Manila. The cart finally halted before a warehouse surrounded by a walled courtyard and departed after the two disembarked. The dock area along the Pasig River teemed with such crude log-and-thatch warehouses. The black-clad man slipped through the back door, produced a key, and opened the padlock. He and the Chinese man entered the warehouse; the door closed behind them. When it opened again a quarter-hour later, the black cloak and mask were gone. The beard glued to his chin was torn off. The cotton padding stuffed into his back to fake a hunchback—the "Purpo" disguise—had been removed. Count Fananovoua mounted a horse tethered in the courtyard and departed through the front gate. Moments later, Jimide donned a Chinese long gown, swapped his sailor's straw hat for a skullcap, and hurried toward the next contact point in the Parian district.

Mr. Geronimo Paño had been suffering from severe headaches lately, as if all the foul humors in his body had rushed to his brain. But even if his skull split open, he refused to see a doctor. Those physicians only knew how to bleed people, and he didn't dare let a barber—drunk all day—cut open his arm.

Priests proficient in medicine weren't so keen on bloodletting—or he could try a Chinese doctor. But Geronimo Paño knew his headache wasn't really a medical issue. As manager of the Royal Shipyard, his suffering stemmed from a damned contract: to build twelve new patrol sloops for the East Indies colony.

The blame for everything belonged to that bastard Japanese—the infinitely evil Paulo Takayama. The design and model of that single-masted lateen-rigged sloop were said to be his work. He had also convinced the Governor to use them to replace obsolete galleys and crude rowing boats, promising the colonial fleet a new look. Of course, anyone who had seen Takayama's personal ship knew these so-called patrol sloops were modeled on his vessel.

Geronimo Paño was among those who had passionately seconded the proposal. No one could remain indifferent to the money such a large order would bring and the praise that would follow upon completion. Only after undertaking the entire shipbuilding contract and impatiently ordering work to begin had he realized he'd fallen into a trap.

The requirements Paulo Takayama imposed on this seemingly simple small boat were bizarre: strange rigging, picky demands on the size and quality of timber—and beyond that, he actually demanded the entire hull below the waterline be sheathed in copper. Geronimo, a shipwright for more than twenty years, had never heard of such an absurd thing. Even the great galleons crossing the Pacific only had their bottoms covered with a layer of tarred canvas and a little lead sheeting. Geronimo decided to coat the new patrol boats with two layers of wood tar; at least that would ensure durability. As for copper sheathing—go to hell. All the copper in Manila had been collected for that Japanese genius to make his precious cannons.

That wasn't even the most outrageous part. Mr. Salamanca, listening to god knows what nonsense from that Japanese bastard, had actually asked Geronimo to his face whether the keels and ribs of the new ships could be made of iron. Had the Governor not been of such noble station, Geronimo Paño would have laughed his belly open. No one in this world possessed the ability to bend pig iron into the shape of ship ribs. Furthermore, even if cast, its brittleness made it unsuitable for keels and frames. As for wrought iron—setting aside where Manila would obtain such quantities—just how to process forgings of that size was a monumental problem.

The shipyard director interpreted this as the Governor worrying about structural strength. He had been forced to use double the material on key components. Fortunately, excellent shipbuilding hardwood was plentiful here. But now the dry timber stockpiled for years was running out, and not even one-third of the project had been completed.