Chapter 116: Anchoring Against the Wind

"Hooked it! Pull it up!"

"Slow down, don't spill it!"

As they were talking, on the port side of the Santa Ana, some craftsmen stood on the deck, rigged up a simple fixed pulley, and hauled on a rope to lift up a bucket of something that looked like paint.

Lin Qian asked, "Is that tung oil?"

"Yes." Mute Huang's apprentice acknowledged, then ran off and brought back a bucket of tung oil.

The tung oil was yellowish-brown and viscous; the moment it was brought over, a distinctive scorched smell wafted over, like the bitter odor of Chinese medicine that had burnt onto the pot.

José said happily, "Helmsman, this is a fine thing."

Presumably Europe had no tung oil—José had only learned of its existence after arriving on Nan'ao Island, which was why he was so excited.

Anyone who sailed the southeast seas of the Great Ming basically knew about tung oil.

This stuff had extremely wide uses—coat a layer on wood, rope, or ironware, and it would resist water, rust, insects, rot, heat, and acid.

It could be said that Great Ming shipbuilding relied heavily on tung oil; basically everything related to seagoing vessels had to be painted with a coat of tung oil before being installed on the ship.

For Nan'ao Island, tung oil was also an important strategic material.

Had he not come to the repair site today, tung oil would have nearly been overlooked.

Lin Qian took a wooden stick and scooped up a bit of tung oil.

Xiao Jiu said, "Helmsman, be careful not to touch it—it's toxic."

Tung oil was mildly toxic—otherwise it wouldn't have its insect-repelling effect. Once brushed onto wood and dried thoroughly, it was harmless to the human body, but direct contact with tung oil was another matter.

Lin Qian asked, "How long can tung oil be stored?"

Xiao Jiu replied, "Raw tung oil, if stored well, can last a year or two; cooked tung oil less than a year. This bucket is cooked tung oil, freshly boiled down from raw tung oil."

Lin Qian thought to himself that he needed to have Boss Hu purchase a supply of one to two years' worth as soon as possible.

Lin Qian scraped the tung oil off the wooden stick clean against the bucket's rim, then took the stick out—a thin yellowish-brown film had formed over it.

In the sea breeze, the film dried rapidly and fused with the wood.

Lin Qian tossed the stick away and asked, "How much tung oil is left on the island? Is it enough?"

"Master says the current stock on the island isn't enough to repair the galleon, but oiling and caulking are usually done last. After a while, Director Chen will buy new tung oil."

Lin Qian nodded and asked a few more questions about sails and rigging.

These sails and ropes looked like ordinary linen cloth and hemp rope, but in fact they were made through many processes—in this era, they counted as high-precision technology.

Especially the sailcloth—a piece of linen canvas this large, to withstand wind and rain, couldn't just be stitched together with a few casual stitches.

In Europe, there was a profession called sailmaker, who made a living sewing sails; and another called ropemaker, who made a living twisting cables. Both, like the Great Ming's caulkers, were genuine crafts with technical barriers.

That was why Lin Qian had Scholar Zhou purchase them together when he went to Macao.

Dusk fell.

Fires were lit at Qing'ao Bay for cooking; the cook stewed a pot of meat soup, and the whole beach filled with the sound of people swallowing saliva.

But the repair schedule was tight—while the sky hadn't fully darkened, there was still more work to be done, so no one was in a hurry to eat.

Lin Qian also needed to return to Nan'ao Town while there was still daylight.

"Helmsman, why not eat before you go?" José had been deeply Sinicized and was well-versed in Chinese courtesy.

Lin Qian smiled and said, "No need—it's hard to sail once it gets dark."

With that, Lin Qian boarded the small boat he had come on and returned to Nan'ao.

By the time the sky was fully dark, Lin Qian stepped onto Houjiang Bay's pier. His stomach happened to be growling with hunger, and he imagined his guards felt the same.

Lin Qian planned to buy some qilu cakes by the roadside to tide everyone over.

Lin Qian hadn't brought any utensils, so he bought a few coarse porcelain bowls from a vendor and had the stall owner put the qilu cakes in the bowls to distribute to the guards.

While picking out the cakes, Lin Qian chatted with the stall owner: "Uncle, are you from Chenghai County?"

"Yes. I heard money was easy to make on Nan'ao Island, so I set up a stall here."

"Do you earn more than in Chenghai?"

The stall owner smiled and said, "Way more than in Chenghai—doubled, I'd say!"

Though Lin Qian's guards carried swords, everyone on the island carried swords, so it wasn't unusual. And since Lin Qian seemed easygoing and without airs, the stall owner was willing to chat a bit more with him.

Nan'ao Island, though isolated out at sea, shouldn't have been able to earn that much more than the mainland.

Lin Qian understood inwardly—this was inflation quietly taking effect.

His clerks, craftsmen, and laborers were all highly paid, and the sailors involved in operations got dividends of dozens or even over a hundred taels of silver at a time.

The island's productive capacity was only so much—it would be strange if inflation didn't occur.

But that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It was precisely because of this inflationary silver that people were willing to risk being branded smugglers to come to the island and do business.

Otherwise, with only the produce of Nan'ao Island's single corner, the islanders would have to eat sampan porridge every day, and his sailors would have nowhere to spend their leisure—they'd be fighting to defect.

Though the Great Ming was a feudal society, there was still a considerable gap between a feudal society and a primitive one.

"All right, sirs, take them!" The stall owner handed out the cakes to the guards.

Lin Qian took his and asked casually, "What's the surname of the new county magistrate in Chenghai?"

The stall owner was taken aback: "Is there a new county magistrate coming? When I head back, I'll make inquiries for you, sir."

Lin Qian smiled, thanked him, and took his leave.

So Chenghai County still hadn't seen a new magistrate take office—Nan'ao Island could keep developing for a while longer.

On the way back, Lin Qian bit into a qilu cake and tasted a floury fragrance, a toasted aroma, and a faint sweetness.

The qilu cake was a kind of stuffed white-flour cake, with a bit of brown sugar and crushed sesame inside—fragrant, sweet, and filling, much loved by the people of Fujian and Guangdong.

The cake used very generous ingredients, all pure white flour.

Lin Qian had only eaten half a cake when he already felt slightly full; he figured one whole cake would fill him right up.

It was now early evening, and the streets were pitch black, lit only by the lanterns of roadside vendors.

Patrol clerks from the Criminal Justice Bureau could be seen on the streets from time to time, and thanks to this, petty theft after dark had decreased considerably of late—Nan'ao city's public security had improved noticeably.

Lin Qian, chewing on a stove-baked flatbread, turned a corner.

There he saw a brightly lit teaching stall set up in the middle of the road. The instructor was holding a water-dipped brush, teaching people to write the character for righteousness on a stone slab.

Five or six students sat at desks, following along with twigs in sand trays.

A dozen or so people stood outside the stall, listening with great interest.

Lin Qian squeezed into the crowd with his flatbread, took a look, and recognized the instructor—it was Wang Hao, the man who had been delivering the Capital Gazette to him lately.

Lin Qian ate his bread while listening to Wang Hao's lesson.

Wang Hao was saying: "The character for righteousness has 'sheep' on top and 'I' below.

The sheep kneels to nurse, thanking its mother's grace—that is filial piety; its horns curve inward and are restrained—that is harmony; in sacrificing to heaven, earth, and ancestors, the sheep is the offering—that is auspiciousness.

Therefore, one who sets aside the small self for great righteousness is good."

This was the first time Lin Qian had heard anyone explain traditional characters this way, and he found the reasoning quite sound.

An islander beside him scratched his head and asked: "Teacher, is this the same character as in 'righteousness and loyalty'?"

Wang Hao let out a barely perceptible sigh: "Yes."

"If you'd said so earlier, I'd have understood right away."

"That's right—when you make your living at sea, nothing matters more than righteousness. This character we must memorize well!"

Hearing this, Wang Hao looked up at the sky, feeling the helplessness of one playing the lute to a cow.

Still, all things considered.

The islanders' enthusiasm for learning had been stirred up.

The crowd stayed where they were, listening as Wang Hao explained a few more characters.

During this time, some left, and new people came to stand and listen on the sidelines.

Wang Hao said to those standing: "The sand trays and twigs on the desks are free to use—everyone can sit down and try writing."

No sooner had he said this than seven or eight people sat down at the desks one after another, picking up twigs to follow along.

Lin Qian happened to finish his flatbread just then, and left feeling satisfied.

He returned to the temporary dwelling.

The house was a three-bay structure with one bright central hall and two dark side rooms—a typical southern dwelling, built entirely of wood with stone foundations and a thatched roof, quite low and compactly arranged.

Nearly all the houses on Nan'ao Island followed this structure, the advantage being that materials were sourced locally and construction was simple.

The disadvantage was low comfort and poor protection against typhoons.

Building this way was also a helpless choice given the shortage of bricks and tiles.

Fortunately, there was still a large open area south of Nan'ao city.

Lin Qian planned that once bricks and tiles were sufficient, future dwellings would adopt a courtyard layout—a main hall, a gatehouse, and east and west wing rooms enclosing a courtyard, with an open skywell in the middle.

This layout was somewhat similar to the northern siheyuan; in the south it was called "Four Points of Gold."

The Four Points of Gold could also be extended east and west with two rows of long houses, called "protecting wings."

The protecting wings were connected to the main house by covered corridors, forming a complete large courtyard—this was the great Minnan mansion.

Lin Qian had some knowledge of traditional Chinese dwellings, and with enough building materials, a grand residence like the Lin estate could certainly be constructed.

Lin Qian walked into the temporary dwelling. The main hall was simply furnished—only basic tables, chairs, bookshelves, and a washbasin stand.

The furniture from the Santa Ana had been left at Qing'ao Bay; transporting it over was inconvenient, so these pieces were whatever the island already had, temporarily moved in for use.

Lin Qian returned to his desk, lit a white insect-wax candle, opened his navigation log, and pulled out a list—a list of supplies he wanted Merchant Hu to purchase in bulk—and added tung oil to it.

Just then, someone outside reported: "Helmsman, Stoneworker Chu has arrived."

Two men entered. The one in front was in his forties, dark-skinned, lean and sturdy, dressed in coarse cloth and hemp—this was Stoneworker Chu from the island.

Behind Stoneworker Chu followed an apprentice, a teenager with a face full of youthful innocence, curiously looking around. The apprentice carried three wooden buckets filled with a grayish-white paste.

"Sit," Lin Qian said.

"I wouldn't dare. If the helmsman has orders, this old man will answer standing." Stoneworker Chu said nervously.

Lin Qian smiled: "This may take a while, so sit down to answer."

Stoneworker Chu could not refuse, and sat down lightly. His apprentice, knowing proper etiquette, dared not sit with his master and stood to one side.

Lin Qian looked at the three wooden buckets the apprentice carried and asked: "These are lime mortars?"

Stoneworker Chu said: "Exactly. As the helmsman ordered, these three buckets of mortar were mixed by this old man just this afternoon."

"Tell me about them in detail," Lin Qian said.

Stoneworker Chu had the apprentice set the three buckets on the ground and introduced them in turn: "This bucket is lime mortar—not water-resistant, mainly used for plastering interior walls.

This bucket is glutinous rice mortar—waterproof and strong, used for the major work, though a bit more expensive.

This bucket is tung oil putty, used for coating the ground layer."

The ground layer was a base coat applied to wooden structures for anti-corrosion and moisture protection, similar to the practice of brushing tung oil on ship planks.

These three buckets of mortar were the Ming Dynasty's equivalent of cement and paint.

At present, Nan'ao Island was about to undertake major construction again, yet key materials like bricks, tiles, stone, and tung oil were all choked off by the mainland. So today he had specifically summoned Stoneworker Chu to understand the construction standards of this era.

Lin Qian asked detailed questions about the performance of the mortars.

Having worked as a stonemason for most of his life, Stoneworker Chu knew mortars like the back of his hand—the first few questions he answered fluently.

But the further the questions went, the longer Stoneworker Chu had to think, and many questions left him completely speechless.

After finishing his round of questions, Lin Qian had gained a good understanding of mortar. As a binding agent, Ming Dynasty mortar performed excellently.

Especially in toughness and durability, it was stronger than modern cement.

Many ancient buildings had stood for a thousand years precisely because of glutinous rice mortar binding.

However, in compressive strength and setting speed, mortar was far inferior to cement.

He only wanted to manufacture modern cement, but there was a key technical difficulty — the firing temperature needed to reach a stable temperature above 1,450 degrees.

Lin Qian asked, "Do you know anything about kilns?"

Stoneworker Chu was taken aback, not expecting Lin Qian's question to span such a wide range. After thinking it over, he replied, "I've never fired one myself, but this old man has seen others do it."

"When firing a porcelain kiln, how high can the furnace temperature reach?"

Stoneworker Chu thought for a moment and said, "It can reach a flame color of orange-yellow, bright yellow."

A flame at 1,400 degrees should appear bright white — the furnace temperatures of this era could not reach that.

His thermite agent could produce temperatures over a thousand degrees, but the reaction lasted too short a time to achieve the stable temperature needed for modern cement firing.

Lin Qian sighed inwardly — sure enough, cement was still too far ahead of its time.

Fortunately, Lin Qian knew a method for making crude native cement. It couldn't compare to modern cement, but it would do in a pinch.

Lin Qian said, "I'll give you a mortar formula. Write it down."

Stoneworker Chu agreed with his mouth, but in his heart he was unimpressed — glutinous rice mortar and lime mortar were things the Old Ancestor had passed down over thousands of years, with the ingredients long since fixed and absolutely no room for change. But since the helmsman had given an order, he couldn't very well defy the helmsman's face, so he put on an appearance of earnest listening.

"Take quicklime to a stone pit, slowly add fresh water, and let it sit for several days to obtain lime paste."

Stoneworker Chu cut in, "The helmsman is describing the slaked lime method, right? This old man understands that."

Lin Qian nodded in satisfaction. Quicklime releases heat when it meets water, and the process required great care — he would have had to drone on about safety precautions, but now that was unnecessary.

Indeed, talking to a professional made things convenient.

Lin Qian continued, "Take broken bricks, broken tiles, and waste pottery, grind them into an extremely fine powder — when rubbed between the fingers, there should be no gritty feel.

Take one part slaked lime, two parts pottery powder, five parts river sand. Spread flat on a wooden board, slowly add fresh water to mix, stir with an iron shovel until it forms a mud paste, and it's ready to use.

This mud paste must be used up within four hours, or it will dry out and form a crust.

After masonry or plastering, cover with wet straw mats or hemp cloth and keep moist for at least seven days. After seven days, it reaches initial strength; after one month, strength reaches its maximum."

The greatest advantage of this crude native cement was its fast hardening speed and low cost.

In plain terms, the native cement allowed faster construction and was cheaper.

One had to know that the glutinous rice in glutinous rice mortar was a staple grain — a dan of glutinous rice cost far more than a dan of lime. Among the common folk there had long been the saying, "Building tombs with glutinous rice — extravagance without limit."

So native cement was very suitable for ordinary houses, while glutinous rice mortar was appropriate for permanent fortifications — the two formed a perfect complement.

After explaining the method, Lin Qian said, "Repeat it back."

"Yes — take broken bricks, broken tiles…" Stoneworker Chu couldn't reproduce it word for word, but the key steps had no omissions.

Lin Qian was very satisfied and said, "Go do it. Call me when the project is ready for inspection."

After Stoneworker Chu left, Lin Qian took out that list again and added lime, clay, river sand, and other key materials for making native cement to it.

Winter month had just begun.

In Chenghai County, Chaozhou Prefecture, two major events occurred.

The first was a heavy snowfall, with accumulation reaching over an inch.

This was the Fujian-Guangdong coast — years with snowfall could be counted on one hand.

According to the old folks, when they were young, Chenghai County went more than a decade without snow; it was only in recent years that it snowed more often.

The second event was that the ship of Master Hu, who made Chaozhou silk, had returned again.

In Chenghai, this was a major event comparable to the snowfall.

Everyone knew that years ago, Master Hu had built a large three-masted Fujian junk, but had been too afraid to take it to sea, leaving it to rot in the harbor.

Such a man — no courage, no skill, only good at lending money and swindling weavers — had actually managed to go to sea successfully and return with overflowing profits. It made many people both envious and jealous.

Amid the wind and snow, many people surged onto the dock to watch the great ship come into port.

Small peddlers took the opportunity to set up stalls and hawk their wares; for a moment the dock was bustling with excitement.

The ship coming into port was a Cangshan boat. Two red-painted sails spread wide, it braved the northwest wind like an osprey skimming the sea surface, sailing on a close reach at full speed.

The wind and snow were heavy, and the Cangshan boat was blown into a slight list to port.

Compared to a Haicang boat, the Cangshan boat had a smaller hull and greater speed. Even at just over three hundred paces from the harbor, it still hadn't lowered its sails.

The people on shore watched with tension.

Someone mocked, "The ship manager of the Chaozhou silk Hu family really does love showing off. It would be amusing if it crashed headlong into the shore."

"As the saying goes, great skill brings great boldness. Lowering the sails later lets the boat get closer to the pier and saves a bit on towing fees."

A vendor selling oyster omelets chimed in, "This gentleman is right. I've been selling oyster omelets at this dock for over ten years and have seen countless ships dock. Not a single skilled shipowner lowered sails three hundred paces out. The one who lowered sails latest even got within a hundred paces."

The sesame cake vendor finished speaking and glanced at the approaching ship.

The red-sailed Cangshan boat had now reached about two hundred thirty paces, still with both sails spread wide, sailing at full speed.

At this distance, the vague figures of sailors on deck could already be made out — all of them at their posts, showing not a trace of panic.

The onlookers all silently cheered in their hearts.

In Fujian and Guangdong, arable land was scarce, and the people valued going to sea to make a living above all. Everyone loved seagoing ships, and in just a moment, the crowd on the dock had grown considerably.

Master Hu Zhaoyuan, leading a dozen or so servants, stood in the middle of the dock, chest out, head high, face glowing red — he felt immensely proud.

On the pier, laborers were already waiting to haul the towlines.

Traditionally, when large galleons came into port, for the sake of safety, they lowered sails from far off, threw out towlines, and had laborers pull the ship to the pier — this was called towing.

Sometimes when the ship stopped too far away, a small boat first had to tow the large ship beside the pier before the towlines could be thrown.

Towing was charged according to the ship's size and the towing distance.

Some shipowners, to save money, would stop very close to the pier — this severely tested the shipowner's piloting skill.

If one botched it and crashed into the pier or the shore, looking foolish was the least of it — the entire ship could take on water and sink.

For this reason, seagoing ships coming into port had always been the most exciting sight.

Among the surrounding crowd, someone had already opened an illegal betting pool, wagering on how close the ship could dock.

Currently, the most bets were on fifty paces, with others on forty and thirty paces.

Master Hu heard the shouts of people placing bets, and instructed his steward, "Take five taels of silver, bet on thirty paces."

A moment later, the dark bookmaker called out loudly, "Master Hu, five taels of silver, betting on thirty paces!"

The surrounding crowd let out admiring exclamations again — truly, great skill breeds great boldness.

Master Hu's face glowed even redder, and he felt that even the wind and snow lashing his face were no longer cold.

Amid the crowd's laughter and talk, the red-sailed Cangshan ship had come within a hundred-odd paces, its sails still spread wide, its bow not aimed at the pier — it didn't look like it was coming in to dock, but rather like it was about to run aground.

The oyster omelet stall owner also grew interested, staring fixedly at the approaching ship.

The dark bookmaker's betting calls and the vendors' hawking cries all grew quieter as the Cangshan ship drew nearer.

For a moment, on the dock where several hundred people had gathered, only the howling of wind and snow could be heard.

Under everyone's watchful eyes, the Cangshan ship came within fifty paces.

Still it did not lower its sails, nor turn its hull broadside.

The oyster omelet stall owner muttered, "Could he be mooring bow-on? Even if he were mooring bow-on, he should have lowered the sails by now."

What is called mooring bow-on means berthing perpendicular to the shore, mostly used by small boats.

In these times, large ships all berthed parallel to the shore, which was called lying alongside.

Once a large ship moored bow-on, putting back out to sea would be very inconvenient; unless berths were scarce, no one would ever do it.

This was precisely the season for sailing to the South Seas, and the Chenghai dock had plenty of berths available. Forcing a bow-on mooring — other than showing off skill, there was no other explanation to be found.

In the blink of an eye, the Cangshan ship was only forty paces from the pier.

The people on the dock could now clearly see the ship's bow with its painted eyes.

The Cangshan ship still had not lowered its sails, nor turned, nor aimed at the pier — it simply charged straight toward the shore.

Lowering the sails now would be too late; it looked set to collide at any moment.

On the pier, the dockworkers hurriedly ran toward the shore.

The common folk in the ship's path also scrambled out of the way.

Master Hu's beaming joy froze on his face. He turned his head with difficulty to look at Scholar Zhou beside him, thinking to himself — was this man's sworn brother mad?

Who would have expected that Scholar Zhou also wore a face full of tension. Master Hu's heart sank completely.

He had wanted to show off before the fellow townsfolk of Chenghai County today, but instead he was about to make a great spectacle of himself!

The crowd let out a cry of alarm.

Master Hu hastily twisted his head around, and saw that the Cangshan ship had put its helm hard to starboard, lowered most of its sails, and was actually sailing against the wind by momentum alone.

The single remaining strip of sail caught the northwest wind at its top edge, and the whole ship let out creaking groans of timber.

Sailing into the wind — unheard of. The crowd on the dock all turned pale with shock.

Even the children on the shore stared blankly at the scene, their malt candy dropping to the ground without their even noticing.

The Cangshan ship was sailing against the wind, its speed dropping sharply.

Combined with the hard-to-starboard helm, the hull turned broadside, and the water's resistance also absorbed some of the momentum.

Less than twenty paces from the pier, the Cangshan ship lowered its sails, turned its rudder, and dropped anchor in one smooth sequence.

Under its momentum, the Cangshan ship's port side aligned with the pier, and it drifted sideways over — slowly, unhurriedly.

When it finally came to a gentle stop, the hull was only five paces from the pier.

At such a close distance, there was no need for dockworkers to haul lines. The ship's anchor man tossed out a knotted cable, looped it over the pier's bollard post, and drew the ship alongside the pier to a steady stop.

Then the crew methodically laid out the gangplank, came ashore, tightened the mooring lines, and began unloading cargo.

A cold-faced man came down from the ship, placed five taels of silver in the head dockworker's hand, and said, "Your trouble — unload the cargo."

Only then did the watching crowd snap back to their senses, erupting in deafening cheers.

Everyone shouted and cheered with flushed faces, their excitement greater than if they had watched a performance of a scene from The Peony Pavilion.

A smell of burning wafted over. The oyster omelet stall owner looked down and only then noticed that this batch of oyster omelets had been fried to a scorched black.

Master Hu strode forward, beaming with pride, and clasped his hands with a smiling face, saying, "Brother Bai's skill at handling a ship is truly admirable. This old man has grown up in Chaozhou since childhood, and this is the first time I've seen the feat of turning a ship broadside against the wind. Today my eyes have truly been opened."

Hearing these words, the gathered crowd all joined in praise, congratulating Master Hu on having capable men under him, on having a skilled ship manager, and so on.

Strictly speaking, Scholar Zhou, Bailangzai, and Master Hu were partners; Bailangzai was not actually a ship manager of the Hu household.

But Master Hu did not bother to explain. When people offered him congratulations, he would accept them with a smiling face, playing the fool.

And Scholar Zhou and Bailangzai also gave Master Hu plenty of face — being called servants of the Hu household did not bother them in the least. They yielded all the limelight to Master Hu, even stepping half a pace behind when walking or standing, never lining up beside him.

(End of chapter)

Pen