Chapter 11
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Translator: volt
Chapter: 11
Chapter Title: The Battle Begins (Map Included)
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(Map Included)
Three months was a pretty long time.
In an era before smartphones, TVs, or the internet had been invented, that stretch felt especially endless.
People embroidered, tended their kitchen gardens, and still had time left over with nothing to do. With food and clothing sorted out for everyone, boredom set in hard.
And that boredom soon... channeled itself into a different kind of energy release.
"Uh... do we really have to go that far?"
"Of course! We have to fend off the Spanish army!"
"Spending two or three days a week purely on military drills... does that even make sense...?"
"If the Spanish show up, won't we all die anyway? You even saw one of their warships yourself, Nemo."
Eleanor's sharp retort left me speechless. Seizing the moment, Lawyer Hughes chimed in.
"Exactly. You just don't grasp the full brutality of the Spanish, Nemo."
"I do know a fair bit, but..."
"There are all sorts of books on it—take a look. The details on how those Spaniards exploited and massacred the natives they called 'Indios'..."
"..."
Hey. You'll all end up doing pretty much the same thing later on.
Scalping heads, building forced labor camps, dropping disease bombs...
Anyway.
I couldn't say that to the settlers with their grim expressions.
Besides, the records did mention the Spanish sending a fleet to our colony, so it wasn't unfounded worry.
If the Spanish came, not only the settlers here but Manteo's tribe too—everyone would die.
No matter how annoying it was, I couldn't talk them out of it. Even if my warship sighting was a little white lie, there was no guarantee the real Spanish wouldn't swing by.
"S-So... what you're saying is... you want to prepare for..."
"We need wooden shields to block enemy bullets!"
"It'd be great if we had some kind of plan. Like, when the Spanish arrive, evacuees flee while fighters stay and hold the line."
"And we're critically short on gunpowder too."
Besides...
"Wooden shields? You think those can stop bullets?"
"You're short on powder too—that's unavoidable, isn't it?"
"What kind of plan exactly? If steel-sword warriors charge in, we'll all drop dead the second melee starts."
Every time I joined these settler meetings, I itched to throw in my two cents.
They were so ignorant of future tech, and it made the debates go round in circles.
"...Um, here's the thing?"
"What is it, Nemo?"
I had no choice but to speak up.
"What if... we had unlimited supplies of gunpowder ingredients right nearby? We could make gunpowder..."
"Of course we could! I'm a former English sailor!"
"...The ingredients... we have them?"
"...Yes."
Plenty to spare.
Nitrogen fertilizer and gunpowder share major components, after all.
"And you wanted shields? Someone asked about melee combat?"
"Y-Yes... that's right."
"Don't worry about that either. Come with me to the warehouse."
Everyone living on the farm needs basic repair and maintenance skills for their homes and nearby facilities.
Which means we have materials for fixing house exteriors too.
"...And, whew. Let me sum this up. You want to prepare for melee?"
"Yes. That's right."
"...So, basically, if we can crush any enemies that get close, we're good?"
"Uh, yeah, pretty much."
I grabbed the sailor guy and headed to the warehouse.
Opening the corrugated metal door, I pointed straight at that thing and said,
"Suppose I charge that into the enemy."
"...Yes."
"Would they die? Or not?"
"...They'd die."
"Good."
I clapped my hands, wrapping up the discussion.
"So... for any Spanish invasion from now on, this is the plan: We'll train, build shields out of that, and charge this into the enemy."
No objections.
And so we trained like mad for three months.
The quiet eastern coast of Croatoan Island was ringed by gray seas that looked ready to freeze over. Waves surged high enough to swallow storm clouds before crashing onto the sandy shore.
A wind laden with salt and biting cold clawed wildly at the coastline.
And there, a lone cabin stood isolated.
The original English flag was gone, replaced by a few sentries guarding this coastal outpost.
From here, the island's residents watched for ships from England. They didn't know when Eleanor's father, John White, might send relief from beyond the sunrise.
"...Huh?"
Chawko, peering through the gray veil of snow and clouds, spotted a single dark dot.
Bird on the sea? Or a trick of the eye? Frowning, he checked the horizon again.
Now there were four dots.
"Wh-Wha...?"
He blinked.
They weren't dots anymore.
And the ships bore symbols the Europeans had taught them.
Not friendly ones.
They were...
-"Those are savages who burn people alive if they don't believe in their god! I heard it clear as day back in London!"
Recalling Manteo's shout, a chill ran down Chawko's spine.
No time to waste. He bolted.
Racing toward the village where the tribe lived, he saw Manteo and the young men practicing musket fire.
Spotting Manteo, Chawko yelled,
"Span-Spanish!"
That one word.
That short utterance chilled the lazy smile from Manteo's face.
Soon the young tribesmen roared, rousing the villagers from their chatter. They grabbed only essentials and fled the village.
Time was short.
Not much before the enemy landed.
December 20, 1588.
With only five days to Christmas, the village buzzed even more frantically. They'd arrived in 1587, so this was their second American Christmas, but...
No one felt that way.
This was their true first Christmas here.
Even those who'd lost family or comrades set aside mourning for now, picking fruits and prepping meals with joyful hearts.
In that atmosphere, I couldn't sit idle either.
...Finally broke down and butchered a few roosters for the feast. Hens? No way. Gotta keep 'em laying eggs and building numbers.
Anyway, short version:
Everyone was hyped.
Even me, no 16th-century Puritan, caught the vibe. The positive energy was contagious—I even joined their prayers and services.
That was the settlement right now.
"Snow's starting to fall—your house holding up okay, Nemo?"
"Uh... why the sudden question?"
"No reason. Just... never seen you haul firewood home."
"..."
"Not too cold in there? Saw you have a chimney, so probably a hearth..."
Sorry. That's fake—brick and plank facade.
Mom, huge Anne of Green Gables fan, swore she'd die unhappy without recreating the Green Gables look.
We nearly ditched central heating for pure fireplace like the 1800s... till I vetoed it. So, fake chimney and fake hearth it is.
Our house runs on standard Korean underfloor hot water boiler.
And the boiler hums along like a faucet spitting endless purified water—self-maintaining.
"I'm good."
No need to spill those beans. I just nodded and smiled.
"Keeping everyone's firewood stocked is priority one. If I was hauling that much, how'd I decorate all those trees?"
'So wealthy yet frugal, yielding firewood for others!'
Eleanor, touched, memorized Nemo's words for her diary.
Nemo himself, of course, had no clue about any of that.
Huh? Eleanor's face looks weird... Whatever.
The Christmas scene I'm used to didn't take shape till the 19th century. No Santa or Rudolph yet.
Santa's absence makes sense—still 16th century.
No Santa gifting? Fine, no present swaps. Christmas was purely religious then.
But no trees? Too barren. I introduced them. Candles and aluminum ornaments on the branches? Pretty gorgeous.
Brown's aluminum bits dangled from countless boughs, sparkling spectacularly.
"...Now it feels like Christmas."
"Did they celebrate back home too, Nemo?"
"Of course. Streets lit with grand lanterns, folks buying gifts for kids or donating fortunes to the poor."
"How...! Must've been beautiful!"
"Yes, beautiful.
...Especially the folks in Santa and Rudolph costumes..."
"Nemo!"
Damn.
About to pioneer the world's first Santa lore, and someone's interrupting?
Turning, I saw the palisade gate swing open. Serious-faced men raced toward me—with dozens of native warriors?
"...Hughes?"
The lawyer we respected here. Quick learner of native tongues, sent as envoy to Manteo's tribe. Back suddenly?
"Huff, huff... Made it in time. They're here! The enemy!"
"..."
Them... No way...
...It started as a fib, but records made it a legit concern.
Of all times, now?
Glancing aside, Eleanor grasped it faster. Face ashen, she sprinted for the settlement, bellowing. Others dropped everything, heading to posts.
Right.
Lately, not much to do. Food plentiful, survival worries gone.
Just chasing birds from potato scraps.
Idle time? We didn't slack. Months of drilling the same routines.
Eleanor repeated one word:
"Spanish!"
And everyone moved as trained.
"Manteo, how much time do we have?"
"Three, four hours maybe. Till they land and find us."
"Where's your tribe at?"
"Right there! All here!"
"Evac everyone to the houses. You and the warriors—muskets at the gate!"
"Got it!"
"Shields and muskets to the gate—everyone!"
Settlement adults assembled with transparent shields and muskets.
Elders and kids long evacuated.
Tense time passed. I headed to the warehouse, fired up that thing, and rolled to the gate.
Clank. Click. Clunk. Clank.
Metal clangs and orders rang out.
They massed at our one un-walled spot—the gate.
Shouts followed.
"In the name of King Philip II, rightful ruler of Spain by divine blessing!"
"..."
"Heretics of England and your allied Indios—we offer you a chance at life! Swear fealty to the new sovereign..."
BANG!
THUD.
"Get lost!"
Eleanor's shout brought silence to the island.
The battle's first death.
Vicente Gonzalez, face flushed red, bellowed at his officers.
"Those damned curs! The English dogs killed our envoy! No mercy for them now!"
No reason to spare the English anyway.
Man, woman, child, elder—reasons to torture and loot abounded. They'd have done it regardless.
Gonzalez's rage wasn't from rejected mercy.
It was the extra hassle for arson, pillage, massacre.
But spelling that out? Undignified, inefficient.
So Vicente ignored the palisade, wire fence, weird structures inside. One word:
"Fire!"
RATTA-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-BANG!
Veteran colonial soldiers—fresh from battling Englishmen and massacring Indios—unleashed their muskets.
Should've brought cannons...? Nah. Barriers between us are flimsy. No siege needed.
BANG-BANG! RATTA-TAT-BANG!
Spanish volley met return fire from English and natives. But civilian marksmanship was crude, ragged.
Acrid smoke tickled noses, stung eyes, blurred vision. Both sides reloaded, fired volleys, waiting for powder to run dry.
And then.
Whoosh...
A clear wind swept the smoke-cleared field. Vicente saw the unbelievable.
"Urgh... Gahk..."
"Ugh..."
Of 211 Spaniards, 30-ish down? Not surprising.
Girl, crone, or strapping man—the bullet's the same. English fired too. Death's impartial as the Lord on the field.
Expected casualties after volley exchange.
So shock wasn't his side.
"...Not dead?"
The enemy.
Visibly, just one or two down.
Unthinkable from pirate-hunting, rebellion-crushing sea dogs.
But he'd never solve the riddle.
That their shields matched the farm-house backs.
That it was PC polycarbonate.
That no 16th-century matchlock pierces a dad's retirement-funded Lexan smart house wall.
He'd never know.
Yes. Retirement funds outmatch gunpowder.
Vicente's face turned purple.
Drawing his Toledo steel sword, he charged forward, roaring,
"Attack! Charge and rip those English savages apart!"
"Waaaaah!"
Spaniards swarmed the iron fence, howling as they climbed.
Something fishy just happened, sure—but melee? Their win.
Or so they thought...
"Fire!"
RATTA-TAT-TAT-BANG!
"Gahk...!"
"Aaaargh!"
Now Vicente couldn't comprehend a thing.
...Why?
Intel said they couldn't stockpile more powder than us.
Failed colony, no resupply—how the hell so much ammo?
Answer to his first puzzle: two words.
Ammonium nitrate fertilizer was "consumable" here.
And it's black powder's key ingredient.
Like the PC intel, Vicente had no way to know. His second puzzle.
And then.
VRRRROOOOM!
"...Wh-What the hell is that?!"
BOOM!
What else?
10-ton forklift, top speed 37.5 km/h.
Here's a map of the area around Croatoan Island! Produced by author Water Earl!