Early the next morning, on May 29th, the sea-going vessel successfully sailed out of Dezhou’s borders, heading north. The journey from Dezhou to Cangzhou was only about a hundred li, and by afternoon, they had passed Jiaohe County, officially leaving Shandong territory and entering Hejian Prefecture of North Zhili.
Since departing Dezhou, the ship had maintained a state of relaxed exterior but internal vigilance, constantly guarding against enemy attacks. Strangely, while Suanni Gongzi’s pursuit in Linqing had been as fierce as a storm, it seemed to have completely ceased in Dezhou. The journey remained peaceful without any signs of threat until they approached Botou Town.
However, Zhang Quan didn’t lower his guard; instead, he ordered an increase in speed. It must be said that Zhang Quan was truly a man of both literary and military talents, with profound knowledge of both canal routes and navigation. He knew exactly when to raise sails to catch the wind when to slow down, which shallow waters to rush through, and which reefs to circumnavigate. Yu Qian repeatedly praised him, saying he was like the reincarnation of Chen Xuan, the General of Canal Transportation—though such a comparison while flattering, was rather inauspicious.
With Zhang Quan at the helm, Wu Dingyuan, Zuo Yehe, and others could finally relax, occasionally taking strolls on the deck. Only Su Jingxi kept herself confined to her cabin on the port side below deck, never appearing except to treat Zhu Zhanji’s wounds. Wu Dingyuan had knocked on her door several times, but she always responded that she was self-imposing confinement for the crime of deceiving the emperor, leaving Wu Dingyuan peculiarly frustrated. He couldn’t ask the prince about it without causing headaches, putting him in a truly difficult position.
Zuo Yehe watched this with amusement. She told Wu Dingyuan that this wasn’t the way to get a woman to open her door. Wu Dingyuan flew into a rage at this, declaring he had no intention of trying to get Physician Su to open her door! He then went to the galley to get a jar of wine and drank himself into a stupor behind closed doors.
By late afternoon on the 29th, the vessel slowly entered Botou Town. The place was bustling with activity, masts rising everywhere like a forest, boats coming and going like shuttles. Looking out, the number of large sails even exceeded the roof ridges on both banks.
According to Zhang Quan, although Botou Town wasn’t large, it was encircled by Hengshui to the east, bordered by the Hutuo River to the west, faced the Ying Sea to the north, and embraced Guangchuan to the south, making it another crucial hub along the Grand Canal. Its prosperity wasn’t just due to its geographical advantages but also another important factor. About thirty li north of Botou was a place called Geshang, where the terrain rose like a pavilion across the canal route. When the imperial court excavated the Grand Canal, they had to build the Geshang Lock there to transport ships between the north and south. The boatmen, merchants, and military escorts would wait in Botou to pass through the lock, and their eating and drinking made the town prosperous.
Zhang Quan didn’t stop the vessel in town but continued north toward the Geshang Lock. He explained to Zhu Zhanji that while their sea-going vessel looked decrepit, it had one advantage—priority passage through locks. Since these modified sea vessels could sink at any time, lock operators feared one might sink in front of their gates and block everything behind it, so they preferred to let them through quickly.
Zhang Quan had chosen this sea-going vessel for their northward journey precisely because of this advantage at places like the Geshang Lock. The canal section from Botou Town to Geshang was one of the rare straight stretches. Standing at the bow, Zhu Zhanji gazed ahead. The day was brilliantly sunny, with a faint, clear air pervading between heaven and earth. Before he stretched vast plains, with the canal extending straight northward like a white ribbon to the horizon as if a celestial swordsman had cleaved the earth with one strike, creating a spectacular sight of rippling waves.
Realizing this canal wasn’t natural but man-made, even the worried prince couldn’t help feeling a surge of pride: “Our Great Ming has accomplished such a magnificent feat.”
“The northern terrain is flat and open. This isn’t even the flattest part. Once we pass the Geshang Lock, the following route will be truly level ground, with no terrain restrictions, allowing us to sail straight to Tianjin Port,” Zhang Quan had somehow appeared behind him.
“Uncle, how does a leisured nobleman from the capital know the Grand Canal so well?” Zhu Zhanji couldn’t help asking.
Zhang Quan laughed, his eyes showing emotion: “People in the capital only know me as an imperial relative skilled in the arts and military affairs, but they don’t know my true interest lies in practical, applicable studies.”
“Practical and applicable?”
“People nowadays are obsessed with classics, spending all day extracting phrases from old texts, deaf to what happens outside their windows. A Ministry of Works scholar doesn’t understand construction principles; a county magistrate doesn’t know farming seasons; a canal official doesn’t understand tides and waves—isn’t that absurd?” Zhang Quan held up one finger. “What I call practical, applicable studies are real, useful knowledge—subjects that can govern the country, benefit the people, and understand the natural world. These are the means to comprehend worldly principles.”
Zhang Quan’s eyes sparkled—Zhu Zhanji had never seen his uncle show such an expression. However, he wasn’t entirely convinced: “I remember once when Fan Chi asked Confucius about farming and gardening, Confucius said he wasn’t as good as an old farmer or gardener. The sage rebuked Fan Chi as petty, saying that if those above understand propriety, righteousness, and trustworthiness, the common people will naturally follow, without needing to learn about farming.”
Zhang Quan scoffed: “Confucius also said ‘In my youth, I was humble, so I learned many common skills.’ The problem with those classical scholars is that they’re overly presumptuous, thinking that mastering ritual and literature will automatically put everything in order. The beauty of practical studies lies in their reality—understanding how things truly work.” He paused, then added self-mockingly, “But nowadays, the court only seeks talent through the classics. As an imperial relative, I can’t take the imperial examinations, but that frees me from such restrictions, allowing me to pursue practical matters that interest me.”
Zhu Zhanji looked at Zhang Quan with surprise; he hadn’t known his uncle had such an unusual interest.
“Though I must admit, I didn’t learn practical studies because they’re useful, but simply because I find them beautiful.”
Seeing the prince still confused, Zhang Quan pointed into the distance: “Take this canal, for instance. It extends for 3,590 li, all made by human hands. Your Highness must have seen it on your journey. The ship routes at Guazhou, the five locks at Huai’an, the water division at Nanwang Fish Mouth—how ingeniously designed, how precisely calculated, what brilliant ideas! These ingenious achievements can’t be captured by a few superficial scenic poems from scholars. I’ve traveled this route over ten times, and each time I’m entranced. The construction, mathematics, natural studies, astronomy, geography, and water management hidden in this long river are all practical studies, and they’re beautiful. Those scholars who never leave their studies can never appreciate this.”
Once Zhang Quan started talking about the canal, he became unstoppable, pouring out strings of numbers and technical terms. If Zhu Zhanji hadn’t traveled the route himself, he would have been overwhelmed. This uncle was truly immersed in the canal—the prince even suspected that his uncle’s extensive travels were just excuses to observe this waterway.
The prince frowned and interrupted: “The Lu Platform was beautiful, the Epang Palace was beautiful, but they were paths to destruction through excessive luxury. Uncle, to be honest, traveling along this canal, I’ve seen many things. The fishermen of Jiangzhun exhaust themselves serving the boats, and the trackers at Huai’an are worn out maintaining the locks. I’ve heard that to keep the canal full, regions must divert water, disrupting farming seasons, not to mention the enormous annual cost of transporting southern grain north. This Grand Canal may be beautiful, but it truly burdens the people and drains resources. Father’s idea is correct—moving back to Jinling would greatly reduce the people’s burden. Everyone could stay in their land, and wouldn’t give outlaws opportunities to cause trouble.”
Hearing this, Zhang Quan’s brows furrowed: “Just because Han Wang uses the canal to cause trouble doesn’t mean the canal has no benefits. Regarding the capital relocation, I shouldn’t comment as an imperial relative, but Your Highness should reconsider.”
“So uncle, you’re also against moving the capital?” Zhu Zhanji was quite surprised.
“No, I just think it’s a shame. The canal’s benefits aren’t limited to just transporting grain to the capital each year…” Zhang Quan stretched out his arm, showing some excitement. “Your Highness, look at these boats around us. Besides grain boats, what else do you see?”
Zhu Zhanji looked around. Dozens of boats large and small formed two long queues around their vessel, heading north and south. Besides official grain transport fleets, there were many merchant and private vessels.
“Look, that boat flies the flag of the Liaodong Command—it probably carries eastern pearls, heading to Hangzhou then on to Fujian to become necklaces for noble ladies there. See that extra-long boat? Those thick round logs must be Nanmu wood from Bozhou, coming up the Chishui River into the Yangtze, then north via the canal—the repairs of the three main halls in the capital depend on them. And that one, just by its draft you can tell it carries quality iron ore from Xingguo or Jinxian, probably supplying the shipyards in Shandong’s Denglai. And that one, yes, the one with the flat bow, with dark brown things spread across its deck—that’s Matixiang ginger from Xumen County in Guangdong. They’re drying it as they sail, and when they reach North Zhili, they’ll pack it up for the border troops in Datong to use…”
Zhang Quan pointed out casually, speaking eloquently: “Treasures from the South Sea, minerals from Huguang, silk from Jiangnan, medicines from the Northwest, furs from the northern frontier—the products from all thirteen provinces and two metropolitan areas flow and circulate through this canal, reaching everywhere, benefiting all under heaven.”
“I didn’t know uncle was so knowledgeable about commerce…”
“The great benefit I mentioned isn’t just merchant profits. What the canal sets in motion isn’t just goods or money, but people’s hearts—the yearning of all regions for the imperial court. Do you remember the ‘Song of Striking Earth’?”
“‘We work at sunrise and rest at sunset, dig wells for water and farm for food—what use is the emperor’s power to us?'”
“Correct, that was sung by an old farmer in Emperor Yao’s time. Think about it—if a common person’s daily needs all come from their own hands, never leaving their village’s five-li radius, what connection do they have to imperial power? Who is the emperor? What is the Great Ming?”
Zhu Zhanji was suddenly speechless. His tutors had taught this passage, but always with approval—he had never considered it from this angle.
“But if this farmer regularly eats white rice from Songjiang, enjoys Jiannan wine during festivals, can take Liaodong ginseng when sick, can give his daughter a Jiangnan lake silk skirt for her wedding, if his son rides a Gansu blue horse wielding a Zunhua steel blade—would his world still be limited to just his village? Would he not know the vastness of the realm and the greatness of Ming? Would he not send distant blessings to the emperor during the Lantern Festival and Mid-Autumn Festival?” Zhang Quan’s emotions were rising.
“The flow of goods is the lifeblood of a dynasty. Consider the human body—if blood stagnates with nowhere to flow, how can it survive long? Only when blood circulates through all limbs and vessels can one live for a hundred years. Emperor Taizong moved the capital to Beijing despite immense pressure and insisted on dredging this canal—this shows great vision and perspective, something those ignorant officials who only know how to count money and grain could never understand. Your Highness, when you become emperor one day, you must consider these matters carefully.” Zhu Zhanji hadn’t expected a casual comment to provoke such a lengthy discourse from his uncle. Just as he was about to respond, Zhang Quan suddenly raised his hand: “Let’s stop here—we’ve reached the Geshang Lock.”
Looking in the direction Zhang Quan indicated, Zhu Zhanji saw a massive barrier suddenly appearing across the great river. The lock walls were built entirely of cut stone and blue bricks, forming two enormous ship chambers at different levels. Each end had rolling dams, and both wings had sixteen arched sluice gates.
Various flagpoles stood in the water before the lock, with different types of canal boats lined up in orderly queues.
Zhang Quan enthusiastically explained: “This Geshang Lock is truly a marvel of practical engineering. Look carefully, Your Highness—the lower chamber is forty-seven chi high, its upper edge level with the bottom of the upper chamber, though the water is only twenty chi deep. When we pass through, we’ll first enter the lower chamber, then all sixteen sluice gates will release water. Once it reaches forty-three chi, the water will lift the boat high enough to pass over the rolling dam into the upper chamber, and we can sail downstream past Geshang.”
The sea-going vessel’s passage rights indeed proved valuable. Led by a water flag, it proudly bypassed the waiting line of ships and headed toward the lower chamber. Zhu Zhanji stood by the rail with interest, observing the surroundings. Above each sluice gate on both shores stood several bare-chested, burly men. A signal cannon fired in the distance, indicating the ship had fully entered the lower chamber.
Zhang Quan filled out a ticket and handed it to a sailor with a meaningful look. The sailor took the ticket along with a jingling bag of silver ingots and tossed them from the bow onto the embankment. A thin clerk sauntered over, bent to pick them up, glanced at them, and made several hand gestures back toward the sluice gates, presumably representing different numbers.
Another cannon sounded. The strong men began turning windlasses to raise the gates, and sixteen streams of white water poured into the chamber like white dragons. The water level began rising steadily.
“This is…”
Zhang Quan explained: “Each boat has a different weight and draft, so before passing through, you must submit a ticket describing the cargo type and weight so the lock can control water levels properly. See those men? They’re called lock handlers—they manage the chamber water levels. If you don’t pay them their ‘water money,’ they might secretly keep the level a fraction too low, and your ship could damage its bottom crossing the rolling dam.”
Zhu Zhanji was furious—wasn’t this blatant bribery? Zhang Quan said: “Who’s bribing anyone?”
“Aren’t they?”
Zhang Quan said casually: “We merely happened to throw money onto the embankment, and they happened to pick it up—how is that bribery?”
Zhu Zhanji had never heard such a transparent excuse. His face reddened with anger, and after a long moment he spat out: “Uncle, you praise the canal, yet it breeds so many parasites sucking people’s blood.”
“Should we forbid all eating because some choke on their food?” Zhang Quan quietly quoted from the Lüshi Chunqiu, dropping the topic. The debate over moving the capital and abandoning the canal had gone on for long enough in court—there was no need to discuss it at this delicate time.
They chatted intermittently as their vessel steadily rose with the water level in the lower chamber. To those aboard, it appeared as if the upper chamber’s dam wall was slowly descending.
Zhu Zhanji noticed a vertical row of protruding stone turtle heads in the moss-covered dam wall. Though crudely carved, they had measurements painted in white beside them: “23 chi,” “24 chi,” and so on. These turtle heads marked the chamber’s depth and placed one chi apart from bottom to top. From the ship’s bow extended a straight bamboo pole with a fan-shaped wooden board at its tip, aligned with the row of turtle heads. As the ship rose, the pole moved upward, its tip tapping each turtle head in succession—a process called “asking passage.” By subtracting the ship’s height from wherever the pole tapped, one could determine the depth beneath the keel.
This method allowed captains to visually judge whether their ships could safely cross the dam and notify the lock handlers to adjust water flow if needed.
With nothing else to do, Zhu Zhanji counted with interest. The bamboo pole had steadily “asked passage” at the thirty-six chi mark. According to the cargo ticket Zhang Quan had signed earlier, they needed to reach forty-three chi for safe passage. The design was ingeniously straightforward, truly capturing the marvel of human engineering.
Zhang Quan commented: “The design of this Geshang Lock came from a friend of mine—he’s truly a construction genius.”
“Oh? Is such a talented person working in the Ministry of Works?”
Zhang Quan smiled: “Actually, he works in the Inner Palace Service.”
This greatly surprised Zhu Zhanji: “He’s a eunuch? What’s his name?”
“His name is Ruan An. But Your Highness wouldn’t know him—he’s the type who only cares for practical studies and won’t rise high in the palace.”
Zhu Zhanji sighed: “To think such talent remains hidden—I must meet him when I have the chance.”
As they chatted casually, water continued rushing through the gates, and the vessel creaked from all sides, making one worry it might fall apart. Fortunately, this didn’t happen—the water surface steadily lifted the somewhat decrepit large ship. Looking south from here, the ground-level buildings grew smaller while the view became increasingly expansive, truly giving one the feeling of “looking down upon all mountains.”
Zhu Zhanji suddenly began to understand his uncle—everything about this river had a unique charm. However, he quickly noticed something was wrong: when the bamboo pole reached the forty-chi turtle head, the water level stopped rising, and the distant sound of rushing water diminished.
“What’s happening?”
Zhu Zhanji found it strange—the ship was still three chi short of safe passage depth, why stop here? Zhang Quan also noticed this anomaly but showed no panic, his hawk-like eyes scanning the sluice gate area. All sixteen gate panels had dropped back down, their windlasses folded away, with no more white dragons of water flowing in. The bare-chested lock handlers lounged lazily by the chamber edge, looking like spectators.
“What? Didn’t we pay enough?”
Zhu Zhanji thought they were trying to extort more money mid-passage. Zhang Quan said in a deep voice: “It’s time for him to appear.” He stretched out his long arm, pointing to a watching platform by the left sluice gate.
A man in brocade robes had appeared there, apparently having just climbed up, given his heavy breathing. He was waving in their direction. Zhu Zhanji’s anger exploded in his chest. The fat man was none other than his cousin, Han Wang’s fifth son, Suanni Gongzi Zhu Zhaoji.
Seeing his imperial brother standing on deck, Zhu Zhaoji’s face quivered with joy. He clapped his hands and laughed: “Brother, you’ve led me on quite a chase!”
Zhu Zhaoji truly felt wronged. After regaining control from the White Lotus, he had carefully arranged a grand welcome ceremony in Linqing, only to nearly catch Yu Qian while the prince mysteriously vanished. He rushed to Dezhou and set up an even more intricate network, yet still found nothing. Only when his spy sent a pigeon message from Jinan did he learn that the prince had detoured there and escaped several pursuit teams before heading to Dezhou.
Though he didn’t know why the prince went to Jinan, at least they were back on the right track. Unfortunately, by the time Zhu Zhaoji returned to Dezhou, the boat had already departed northward. The poor fat man had to ride day and night, leaving half his men behind, barely managing to catch up with the prince at the Geshang Lock.
This hardship deserved to be shared with his imperial brother.
Suanni Gongzi wiped his sweat and raised his right hand, four fingers pointing down and his middle finger extended, looking like a turtle. Then he slapped his left hand’s folding fan and laughed out four words. Though Zhu Zhanji was too far to hear, the gesture meant “catching a turtle in a jar.”
The lock handlers had taken Suanni Gongzi’s silver, stopping the water dragons. The remaining three chi height differences would make the rolling dam an insurmountable peak. Now the sea-going vessel was trapped in the chamber, unable to advance or retreat. In just half a shichen, Zhu Zhaoji’s men would all arrive, truly making it a turtle caught in a jar.
Though furious, the prince had to admire his cousin’s adaptability. Arriving alone at the lock, he had instantly devised this interception method, single-handedly trapping an entire ship.
“What should we do?” Zhu Zhanji anxiously asked Zhang Quan. “Before his men arrive, should I reveal my identity to the lock officials and force them to release more water?”
“No need for Your Highness to risk yourself,” Zhang Quan said softly. “Return to your cabin—I’ll handle this.”
“No! How can I rest easy inside? What are you planning? I want to watch!”
Knowing the prince’s stubborn nature made him difficult to persuade, Zhang Quan instructed: “I have my arrangements, but Your Highness must hold on tight.” The prince was puzzled but, seeing Zhang Quan’s confident expression didn’t ask further. Yu Qian ran over from afar and pulled the prince to a long oar.
Walking toward the bow, Zhang Quan shouted: “All hands, attention to my command!” The sailors seemed prepared—half ran to the deck and surrounded the cargo piles covered with canvas, while the other half began operating the sails and oars. Since leaving Dezhou, many things had been piled on deck under covers, never revealed. The prince vaguely felt this must be part of Zhang Quan’s pre-arranged strategy, but couldn’t guess what it might be.
“You two, hold on tight as well—no one will be able to help anyone else in a moment!” Zhang Quan barked at Wu Dingyuan and Zuo Yehe. They obediently stood beside the prince, all gripping the long oar.
In the distance, Zhu Zhaoji sat on the viewing platform, watching the deck activity with interest. He didn’t understand what they could be busy with in this situation—were they planning to force their way across the dam? But this wasn’t a matter of an inch or two—it was a three-chi drop! Forcing passage would be like ramming into a wall—there was no escape.
He checked the sun’s position, calculating the time—his men should arrive soon. This Geshang Lock would surely be his imperial brother’s doom. Next, he should quickly report the good news to his father. Once he ascended the throne, the position of heir—no, the position of crown prince might not be out of reach. But just as Zhu Zhaoji began to daydream, he saw Zhang Quan standing tall at the bow, looking this way with a mocking smile.
He had anticipated my strategy. Zhu Zhaoji’s eyelid twitched.
By now, the sailors had pulled away the canvas covers on deck, revealing the true nature of the cargo—they were large blue bricks, fired in the Linqing kilns. There were thousands of them, stacked in more than ten neat piles. When Emperor Yongle built the capital, he needed vast quantities of blue bricks, most coming from Linqing’s kilns. Even now, blue bricks remain a major commodity shipped from Linqing to the capital. Every boat carried a few cubic yards—nothing unusual.
But what use were they? Surely they weren’t planning to build a wall on the ship? The same question arose in both Zhu Zhanji and Zhu Zhaoji’s minds.
Almost simultaneously, they received their answer. Zhang Quan’s voice thundered like spring lightning, speaking a single word: “Dump!”
The sailors immediately sprang into action.
It turned out there was an extra layer of canvas beneath these brick piles. The sailors bent down together to pull at the edges of the bottom canvas, dragging entire brick piles into motion. When the canvas reached the ship’s edge, the sailors gave it a powerful shake, and the entire pile of bricks tumbled overboard with a cascading splash.
“No!”
Zhu Zhaoji leaped up from the viewing platform—he now understood Zhang Quan’s plan! He grabbed a nearby lock clerk and shouted, “Quick! Open the drainage gates!” The clerk replied languidly, “That won’t come cheap.” Zhu Zhaoji hurriedly said, “However much you want, I’ll give it to you later!” The clerk rolled his eyes: “Earlier, the young master paid upfront—we can’t break that rule.”
Zhu Zhaoji silently cursed his luck. Having rushed here alone, he hadn’t brought much wealth. He had already given away his agate bracelet, gold headband, and jade pendant to bribe the lock handlers. Now only his brocade fan held any value.
In truth, if he waited for less than half a shichen, his main force would arrive with plenty of wealth. But this clerk refused credit, insisting on payment before action. Zhu Zhaoji, who had just been celebrating these clerks’ greed, now despised it utterly.
While he argued with the clerk, the ship’s sailors were nearly finished unloading. Canvas after canvas was dragged, pile after pile of heavy blue bricks plunged into the water, sending up splashes of varying sizes. As the ship rapidly lightened, the long bamboo pole began moving upward again, tapping the stone turtle heads: forty-one chi, forty-two chi, forty-three chi…
Zhu Zhanji clenched his fists, unable to hold back a cheer. No wonder these brick piles weren’t stored in the hold but placed on the deck—it was for easy dumping. Zhang Quan had anticipated lock troubles and prepared this contingency. If someone deliberately held back the water level, the sea-going vessel could quickly raise its draft by dumping bricks and leaping across the rolling dam.
Which was exactly what Zhang Quan was about to do.
The sailors at the mast and hull sides were ready. As soon as the measuring pole passed forty-three chi, they immediately pulled sails and worked the oars. Zhu Zhaoji watched wide-eyed as the vessel shuddered, and then slowly moved toward the upper chamber. He could do nothing now but pray to all deities that Zhang Quan had miscalculated the depth, hoping the ship’s bottom would shatter on the rolling dam.
But his wishes were denied. The great ship, lightened by thousands of dumped bricks, now drew much less water. Its pointed bottom glided smoothly over the curved top of the rolling dam, entering the upper chamber without hindrance. Ahead lay an open waterway straight north to the capital, with no force left to stop them.
The lock clerk watched dumbfounded. He had planned to demand an extortionate price, never expecting the captain to play such a hand. Not only had he missed out on a large bribe, but clearing the broken bricks from the lock bottom would be an enormous task. Just as he was about to curse loudly, he suddenly stumbled, violently pushed to the ground by Zhu Zhaoji.
Before he could understand what had happened, Zhu Zhaoji had stepped over him and was running toward the passage beside the upper chamber.
This passage, meant for craftsmen to inspect the chambers, was narrow and steep. Yet the fat prince moved with surprising agility, climbing like a lizard up the wall crevice, reaching the top in moments.
Up here, besides the channel, gates, and auxiliary facilities, there was an earthen platform facing the chamber. On it stood an iron cannon about six chi long, its black muzzle pointed high into the sky—this was the lock’s signal cannon. Since the lock’s ends were too far apart, this signal cannon usually coordinated the opening and closing of gates.
An elderly gunner with graying hair was leaning against the gun carriage eating a rice ball when Zhu Zhaoji rushed up and kicked him unconscious without hesitation. Breathing heavily, Zhu Zhaoji first checked the sea-going vessel—it was still slowly moving down from the dam. This stage couldn’t be too fast, or the impact force alone would break the ship apart.
Zhu Zhaoji showed a vicious smile, kicking away the wooden wedge in front of the gun carriage. The elevated barrel immediately dropped to a horizontal position. He pushed aside the unconscious gunner, pulled out three bags of powder from beneath him, stuffed them all into the barrel, thought for a moment, added two more, then grabbed the ramrod and tamped them down hard. Next, he took a small fire pick, opened the touch hole to pierce the bottom powder bag, steadily inserted a fuse, and closed the firing pan.
This loading sequence was so smooth that even the capital’s Divine Engine Division would rarely match such efficiency. For a prince of a vassal state to be so skilled with firearms showed that Han Wang had long planned his sons’ education.
This wasn’t originally a signal cannon but a proper field piece. After Emperor Yongle’s five northern expeditions, some military equipment was decommissioned, and this cannon was moved to the lock entrance for signaling. To return it to its original purpose, Zhu Zhaoji needed one last, most important thing—a projectile.
Signal cannons only needed to make noise, not destroy targets, so the platform only stored bags of sulfur powder, no shot.
Zhu Zhaoji looked around and spotted a signal flag near the lock, its pole set in a small stone pedestal with a hole carved in it. He rushed over, pulled out the flag, hugged the pedestal, and with great effort moved it step by step to the cannon. Fortunately, the pedestal was small and its edges smoothly polished, allowing it to fit directly into the muzzle.
When Zhu Zhaoji finished the final preparations, sweating profusely, the sea-going vessel was about to slide down the last section of the rolling dam’s slope, its pointed bottom cutting two sprays through the water as the massive hull steadily passed the gun platform. At this distance, aim wasn’t a concern. Using a bundle of straw from the ready fire basin beside the platform, he lit the fuse, then rolled into the nearby canal, gasping heavily.
The fuse, made of paper twine and pre-soaked in powder, burned very quickly. When the fire reached the final section and entered the barrel, there was a moment of silence, followed by an ear-splitting boom.
This explosion had two effects: first, the barrel couldn’t withstand the excessive powder charge and burst; second, the stone pedestal shot out with the expanding force at extreme speed across the water. Though the burst barrel completely threw off the firing line, the ship’s huge hull made up for the lack of accuracy.
In the blink of an eye, the pedestal pierced the vessel’s left side like tearing paper, brutally smashing through layer after layer of hull partitions, wreaking havoc inside. This sea-going vessel, originally built for ocean travel with a pointed bottom, wasn’t suited for inland waters. When the cannon fired, it was just about to descend the rolling dam’s slope. The impact made the pointed bottom unstable, causing the ship to rock violently.
No one aboard had anticipated this attack. People fell everywhere, many tumbling onto the deck. Even Zhang Quan at the bow had to grab a pole awkwardly to keep his balance. Wu Dingyuan, Zhu Zhanji, and Yu Qian maintained their balance by holding the long oar. But just as they were secretly relieved, a woman’s scream came from the port side.
“Physician Su?”
Wu Dingyuan and Zhu Zhanji simultaneously recognized the voice—Su Jingxi had never screamed so desperately before. Without even exchanging glances, they both released the oar and rushed to port.
When they arrived, they were horrified. The stone pedestal had hit exactly where Su Jingxi’s cabin was. She had been self-isolating for deceiving the emperor, never leaving her cabin, only to meet this disaster from above. The lucky part was that the pedestal hadn’t hit her directly but passed through the cabin; the unlucky part was that the violent rocking had thrown her out through the hole made by the projectile.
They arrived just in time to see Su Jingxi fall into the water. Before Yu Qian behind them could even shout “Ah!”, both men had unhesitatingly jumped in after her.
Zhang Quan, who had just regained his balance at the bow, saw this and immediately ordered the ship to stop. A nearby sailor said they hadn’t completely descended the slope yet, stopping now would be risky. Zhang Quan kicked him and roared, “Drop anchor!” The sailors had no choice but to heave the heavy anchor overboard.
The sea-going vessel had been descending when it was first hit by the cannonball, then suddenly jerked to a stop by the anchor—like a wild horse suddenly reined in, all the force rebounded through the hull. Every part creaked alarmingly, some places even cracking.
Nevertheless, the vessel managed to stop.
The situation in the water wasn’t good. Su Jingxi had lost consciousness from the shock and was sinking. Wu Dingyuan and Zhu Zhanji took deep breaths and dove together. They showed amazing coordination, searching together in the murky water, quickly finding and grasping her neck and left leg from front and back.
But they had reached their breath’s limit. In unison, they raised their arms, trying to lift Su Jingxi to the surface.
Zhang Quan, standing at the bow, saw bubbles rising to the surface as his usually composed face nearly tore apart. This development surprised him more than the unexpected cannon attack. He never imagined the prince would risk his life to save a female physician.
A dozen sailors jumped into the water and soon pulled the three soaking people back aboard.
Wu Dingyuan was in decent shape, just somewhat weak. Zhu Zhanji’s condition was more serious. His shoulder wound had repeatedly reopened, and now after struggling in the dirty water, it had torn again, with dark bloody water seeping through the bandages.
Seeing at least no one had died, Zhang Quan relaxed slightly and turned his attention to Zhu Zhaoji by the gun platform. Zhu Zhaoji had climbed out of the canal and stood covered in dust amid the wreckage of the platform, making a mocking farewell gesture to Zhang Quan.
Though Zhu Zhaoji hadn’t stopped them from passing the lock, his final shot had damaged the hull. Combined with Zhang Quan’s forced anchoring to save people, the sea-going vessel’s condition had further deteriorated. Its speed along the canal would necessarily be greatly reduced. Zhu Zhaoji’s main force would soon reach the lock, and then pursuing a wounded ship along the shore would be child’s play.
Zhang Quan coldly snorted. He knew his action had been like drinking poisoned wine to quench thirst—the situation ahead would be worse, but he’d had no choice. The two men stared at each other, their gazes slowly crossing. The damaged ship finally slid to the bottom of the slope, raising a huge splash. Ahead lay no more locks, just a wide, straight waterway heading north without cover. A favorable wind happened to blow, and the sea-going vessel raised its mainsail, striving for speed.
The lock’s chambers and gun platform were soon left behind, becoming a spectacular backdrop, with Zhu Zhaoji’s fat figure on the platform like a stubborn ink stain in the background. Though tiny, it would be hard to erase.