Chapter 10
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: volt
Chapter: 10
Chapter Title: Intruders
-----------------------------------------------------------------
...A lot had happened in the meantime.
"Grapes... 500 vines?"
"That's right. Haven't you already told the surrounding tribes you'd distribute more to them?"
"Well, sure, the nearby tribes are clamoring for even one more vine, but..."
"Then take them."
"..."
Manteo tilted his head at my relieved expression, as if sensing something was off, then stepped outside. Soon, countless natives began hauling the 500 grapevines into baskets.
It was quite the spectacle.
Yeah.
The biggest event over the past three months had been this, hands down.
The Shine Muscat gift economy network.
Countless tribes had tasted Shine Muscat grapes and, like Chileans witnessing an autonomous taxi for the first time, couldn't snap out of their shock.
And who could blame them? The Algonquins around here did some farming, but they were half hunter-gatherers at heart. They'd never encountered fruit this meticulously cultivated before.
Once they got a taste, the surrounding tribes started begging Manteo for just one more vine.
In the end, Manteo's tribe had built a massive gift economy network, importing grapes from me in bulk and distributing them.
Being at the center of it all, Manteo and his mother's authority had risen considerably. At this rate, Manteo inheriting the chieftainship wouldn't be difficult at all.
Thanks to that, our village was now overflowing with pearls, coral, animal hides, and all sorts of vegetables and fruits.
The settlers, who once fretted over food, were now proudly flaunting fur cloaks and enjoying happy days.
"Hey, can you eat that grass over there?"
"It's poisonous! Stay away!"
"What about those fruits?"
"Those... well, that one's a melon. Should be safe to eat."
As exchanges unexpectedly ramped up, Manteo sent three or four people to our settlement to act as diplomats, which greatly expanded our settlers' knowledge of local flora and fauna.
And one more thing.
"Mr. Brown, weren't you a goldsmith?"
"That's right. I was pretty successful in London too. Came here thinking it was a land of gold, but..."
"Oh dear. Must have been disappointing."
"What are you saying? We've gained something far more precious than gold, haven't we? I'm grateful to the Lord instead."
"Hahaha, indeed. The friendships and experiences we've gained in a place like this are worth more than gold..."
"No, I mean that 'rust-proof metal'! The stuff you gave me back then! You still have it, right?"
"...Pardon?"
"...Pardon?"
That's when I realized the Englishmen who used to chug canned drinks and stack the empties in front of my house weren't racist scumbags.
I mean, aluminum is more expensive than iron, sure. But is it really a precious metal?
A metal that never rusts, no matter what.
A metal insanely hard to produce naturally.
A metal tougher than iron but lighter than iron.
Ah.
That night, I dug through my backyard until dawn, hunting for buried aluminum cans.
Here's the unexpected snag.
Would aluminum foil be treated as an infinite-supply 'consumable' in this house? Or a durability-infinite 'permanent item'?
The answer was 'consumable'.
Precious metal rarer than gold coming out of my house infinitely!
With one caveat.
"...Is this all the aluminum foil you have?"
"Seems like it, Mr. Brown. And it's aluminum."
"Alu..."
"...minum. Aluminum."
About 3 grams a day.
Damn it. Should've stocked up on aluminum foil before it ran out.
Anyway, goldsmith William Brown was thrilled, set up a workshop, and got hooked on aluminum crafting. Calling it the 'gold of the New World' and grinning like he'd already become rich.
Thanks to him, I could now place a hand-sized statue of Uncle Choi by my bedside.
...And just like that, I became ridiculously rich overnight.
A flood of daily necessities and luxuries pouring in from all over North Carolina and Virginia.
On top of that, aluminum—which was only slightly pricier than iron back home—had become an incredible precious metal (or so it was poised to be).
"Truly, you are an extraordinarily wealthy man."
"This stuff... you're saying it's really going to be that valuable?"
"Of course. I was a goldsmith with nothing to work on, worrying about it, but now that's over. Hahaha!"
Or so he says.
And yet another development.
Our now fabulously wealthy and leisurely settlement could finally shift focus from mere survival to other pressing matters.
"We need to prepare before the Spanish show up!"
"Uh... didn't we leave muskets and powder on Roanoke Island? Plus iron bars and lead ingots for making bullets..."
"There should be plenty of other weapons left there too. We ought to make a trip back."
"Exactly! And Father would never expect us to be here! Wouldn't it be better to leave a clearer marker?"
"Hmm... You've got a point. Go ahead and check it out."
So the settlers formed an expedition, borrowed native boats, and returned to their original Roanoke Island outpost. Bringing back all sorts of weapons brought a huge wave of relief.
Well... yeah, I suppose so.
If the Spanish showed up, pretty much everyone here would get wiped out.
But I lacked the guts to say 'Heh, just kidding!' so I just smiled warmly. The settlers, who now saw me as their village chief, seemed to interpret my smile positively.
Soon a forge sprang up next to the goldsmith's workshop, and musket and lead bullet production ramped up quickly.
The endlessly expanding settlement slowed its growth, bundling logs into a massive palisade nearby for defense.
Before long, people grew accustomed to patrolling with muskets, scouting for Spanish warships landing.
At this point, I was truly speechless.
If I admitted it was a joke now, I'd probably get shot.
And finally...
"Delicious, isn't it? I hear the Spanish say it's awful."
"Those guys were probably just too full, Mr. Huet. How could people born in a land with such fine weather and vast fields be picky eaters?"
We harvested potatoes.
...And sorry, but yeah, potatoes really are bland. 21st-century folks eat centuries of heavily bred sweet varieties, but these are literally flavorless.
Whatever the case, the potato crop was a resounding success.
I must have underestimated 16th-century people. Folks from this era have probably all tended a garden at least once.
Very few rotted in the ground, and the yield was decent. This time, I selected good seed potatoes without mistakes and stored them in a cool shed.
When replanting time comes, I'll sprout them using the mountain light method by then. Next year, we'll harvest way more than this year.
Anyway.
Successfully harvesting potatoes held special meaning for us.
Christmas—the biggest Christian holiday—was approaching, and while abundant food was nice, that was secondary.
We'd achieved food self-sufficiency.
"So... this colony has finally succeeded."
Watching the settlers celebrate with roasted meat and songs was heartwarming in itself. I watched them with genuine warmth, then glanced aside.
Sitting close beside me was Eleanor.
"We've achieved self-sufficiency, exchanged gifts with the natives and improved relations. Everyone's tending their own fields, living happily."
I noticed her accent slipping.
"...Just like what Father promised those people..."
She covered her face with both hands. Tears seeped through her fingers.
"I thought... they'd all died... My husband died like that... and the others too..."
Her husband had been a notorious scoundrel with a bad reputation. Still, death was death.
"...Some wanted to become gentlemen, others fled London to escape prostitution. So many came here chasing dreams... and they've achieved them."
Then she looked at me. Her face, her eyes sparkled with tears.
"Th-thank you, Nemo."
"...No need. It's thanks to everyone's efforts."
"No. If you hadn't saved us, we probably all would have..."
"..."
I gave her time. Time to sort out her emotions alone.
After a long while of sobbing, her trembling voice resumed.
"...Why?"
"..."
"Why did you save over 30 dangerous people like that, without asking anything in return? Wh-why...?"
"..."
I pondered my answer for a moment.
What should I say? What would make me sound like a 'mysterious benefactor'?
"...If saving a person requires a reason, wouldn't that be too sad?"
"...Pardon?"
"Let's just say 'just because'."
"..."
I mulled over my own words and realized they were the plain truth.
I just saved them.
No special reason.
Eleanor cried again at my words. Kept crying.
"You mustn't cry."
"...Pardon?"
"Christmas is coming soon."
So I tossed out a joke.
"No present for me."
Of course, a joke no one but me would get.
Thud.
A few boats crossed the treacherous sea filled with marshes and whirlpools, finally reaching land. They strode forward through tall grass fields and squelching, repulsive swamps.
Each one brimmed with wary eyes, bodies tense.
"Everyone, move inland!"
As the last boat touched shore and their warships lightly kissed the island, a fiery command rang out. The soldiers shed hesitation and began to move.
"Governor?"
"What is it, Fernando?"
"If I may, according to the charts of the area, this small island was already abandoned by the colonists. We should thoroughly search Chesapeake Bay instead..."
"Haven't we already searched Chesapeake Bay? Chasing rumors among savages, grasping at clouds... I'm exhausted. Better to check where it all began."
"...Understood."
Vicente González, governor of Santa Elena in Spanish Florida, issued stern orders while surveying the surroundings.
Over a hundred soldiers were slouching about, scouring this savage land.
Even hearing rumors the Roanoke colony had moved to Chesapeake Bay, His Majesty the King hadn't set aside his worries.
The West Indies colonial government was gripped by fear of potential English military bases or staging posts.
It had been months since González was dispatched.
The tedious search of Chesapeake Bay yielded no colony traces. They must have fled the Spanish fleet.
Thus, the expedition was a failure.
'I brought warships and can't end up just chasing English tails. I need something to report to the colonial authorities, no matter what...'
Thinking that, Vicente González unconsciously bit his thumbnail in anxiety.
If he returned empty-handed, those damned English pirates would suck Spain's wealth dry like mosquitoes.
The mere thought filled him with irritation...
"G-Governor! Come here, quick!"
"Hm?"
Rustle.
Deer fled human footsteps, birds pecked at shattered melon chunks before flying off.
The flapping shattered the silence, and Vicente González leaped through bushes toward the soldier's shout.
And...
"Oh... my God."
They saw traces of over a hundred people who had lived there.
A encircled palisade, half-collapsed huts left abandoned.
On one log was carved:
- 'CROATOAN.'
Beneath it, in smaller but legible script:
- 'Settlement successful. Head to Croatoan Island upon discovery.'
A smile crept across Vicente's lips.
Soon, over a hundred armed men departed Roanoke Island once more.
They had a new destination. And a new divine mission from God.
The English heretics who betrayed the Holy Father were no better than beasts.
Thus, slaughter every two-legged beast there.
A neatly decisive conclusion.