Chapter 56

Restoration Ship B turret interior

Loader Chen Ahming listened to the broadcast, his eyes shining. He turned to look at gun chief Zhou Tiezhu: "Gun chief, the captain spoke well."

"Hmm." Gun chief Zhou Tiezhu was checking the ammunition hoist's gears without looking up, "But just saying it's good isn't enough; you have to do it well. Ahming, check the spare propellant charges—humidity must not exceed limits."

"Yes!"

Ahming opened the storage locker and carefully inspected each propellant charge. These yellow charges were wrapped in specially made waterproof cloth, stamped with the Lanfang Navy insignia—a yellow dragon coiled around a gear.

"Gun chief, you say… after we finish this battle, can we go home?"

"Go home to where?"

"Borneo, ah." Ahming said, "My parents are still in Kundian. When I left three years ago, my mother cried, 'Son, you must come back.' Now that we have such a formidable ship, we should be able to fight our way back, right?"

Gun chief Zhou Tiezhu stopped what he was doing and looked at this eighteen‑year‑old lad. Ahming's eyes were full of expectation—that youthful belief that the future will surely get better.

"Can." The veteran gun chief nodded firmly, "Surely. Once we build ten, twenty ships like this, we'll sail back to the South Ocean. Then, if the Dutch gunboats dare to block us, we'll show them what a real warship is."

"Then I want to fire the first shot!" Ahming exclaimed excitedly.

"Fine, I'll let you fire first." Gun chief Zhou Tiezhu smiled, "But for now, finish your duties. Fighting isn't about passion; it's about training, discipline, and getting every detail perfect."

"Understood!"

Noon, north latitude 17 degrees, east longitude 65 degrees.

The sun rose to zenith, the Indian Ocean's surface reflecting blinding white light. Temperature rose above thirty‑five degrees, the deck scorching hot underfoot.

In the Restoration Ship's mess hall, sailors were taking turns eating. The mess was spacious and bright, with real tables and chairs instead of benches, and electric fans were installed on the ceiling—though the airflow was weak, in this heat it was already a luxury.

"Today's food is not bad." Signalman Wang Xiaohu scooped a mouthful of rice, pointing at the braised fish chunks on his plate, "Fresh fish, not salted."

"I heard yesterday a fishing boat followed us and this morning delivered this." The radar operator Xiao Li at the same table said, "We're celebrities now—wherever we go, people gather to watch." (Stopping to buy supplies should be fine, right?)

"More than just onlookers." Another sailor lowered his voice, "I heard that the Chinese merchants' associations of several nearby ports have sent small boats to trail our fleet from afar. They're watching to see if we're really as formidable as the legends say."

Wang Xiaohu raised his head: "Then we need to put on a good show."

"Of course. By the way, have you seen any British? Just now I went up on deck for some air and saw those sailors on the Fearless Ship's deck, each looking like they'd crawled out of a coal pile, all black and grimy."

"They're burning coal. Unlike us, we're clean and tidy."

"And there's more." Xiao Li said mysteriously, "I overheard a conversation on the bridge saying the British engineers are about to give out. Our engine room is running at only sixty percent capacity—easy as pie. They're straining themselves to the limit just to keep up."

The sailors exchanged smiles, their expressions showing pride, ease, and a sense of "we know something you don't."

This sense of superiority isn't arrogance; it's confidence based on fact.

Meanwhile, aboard the Fearless Ship, the situation was completely different.

Fearless Ship sailors' mess

Here there are no tables or chairs, only long benches. Sailors carry metal trays, lining up for food—hardtack as hard as stone, overcooked salted beef, and a spoonful of mushy peas.

Tom Harris—former loader of the main gun turret—carried his tray to a corner and sat down. He was covered in a mixture of coal dust and sweat, his fingers blistered from burns.

"Damn it, salted beef again." The sailor next to him complained, "I'd bet these cuts were pickled during the Boer War."

"Better than nothing." Harris munched on his biscuit, "At least it's better than shoveling coal in the boiler room."

"Speaking of the boiler room, have you heard? The B boiler set is leaking, now we rely on the other three to hold. The chief engineer says if we keep steaming at full speed for another twenty‑four hours, at least one more will fail."

Harris stopped chewing: "What do we do?"

"What can we do? Pray that takes pity and stops to wait for us." The sailor gave a wry smile, "But I doubt it. They're clearly just toying with us."

The mess hall was permeated with a despondent atmosphere. Sailors spoke in low voices, all talking about the mysterious warship ahead.

"I heard that ship was built by the Chinese."

"How could that be? The Chinese building warships?"

"Absolutely certain. My cousin in naval intelligence says the Lanfang has built a large shipyard in the Persian Gulf, and Germans and French go there to buy ships."

"So if we go fight them, wouldn't that—"

"Or what? Suicide?" A veteran cut in, "You youngsters haven't seen a real naval battle. I know what battleship broadsides are like. With our twelve‑inch guns, firing at that ship's armor, I reckon we couldn't even dent it."

"But we have ten guns!"

"One of their guns equals two of ours." The veteran pointed at his tray, "It's like you have a pile of peas versus a steak on the other side. What good are numbers when the quality gap is so huge?"

Harris listened to these words, his heart sinking ever deeper. He had joined the navy out of admiration for Nelson, dreaming of expanding the empire's frontiers. Now, for the first time, he doubted whether the empire was truly as invincible as the propaganda claimed.

"Hey, look outside!" someone suddenly shouted.

Sailors rushed to the portholes. All they saw was the Restoration Ship's side opening a few hatches, with some sailors pushing something onto the deck.

They were a few canvas deck chairs.

Several Lanfang sailors lay on the chairs—some reading, some drinking tea, and one… actually fishing!

"They… they're fishing?!" Harris's jaw nearly dropped.

"And they're using an electric winch." The old sailor beside him narrowed his eyes, "Look at that spool turning by itself. These guys really treat the Indian Ocean as their own backyard."

To make matters worse, a Lanfang sailor seemed to notice the Fearless Ship's side watching and waved with a smile.

That smile was friendliness so bright it was glaring.

"They're mocking us." A young sailor gritted his teeth.

"No." The old sailor shook his head, "The premise of mockery is treating you as an opponent. They didn't treat us as opponents; they just… didn't treat us as anything at all."

That statement hurt more than any mockery.