Chapter 15
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: volt
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: Galleon
-----------------------------------------------------------------
"Ah!"
Vicente González, governor of Spanish Santa Elena, greeted what was by far the most refreshing and crystalline morning of his life, accompanied by the chirping of birds.
...Why? Why was the air here so sweet? Why did the breeze wafting through the window feel so invigorating?
...Because I was spiritually reborn right here.
Vicente shed tears of emotion once more as he straightened his bedding. Given his status as a prisoner and the circumstances of this settlement, the sleeping arrangements provided in the farm shed were downright luxurious.
And on top of that, his body was miraculously unscathed after being rammed by that monster.
He was one lucky man.
Anyway, he flung open the door, gulped down the fresh morning air, then jogged lightly around the farm to wake his body.
"Haa... My God..."
Everything drew a gasp of awe.
Perfectly tilled fields, a garden thriving even in winter, and a mansion that wasn't enormous but carried an oddly unfamiliar, mystical air.
Beautiful. Nothing wasn't beautiful.
As he jogged several laps, remnants of that past battle caught his eye everywhere.
Take that wire mesh, for instance.
That 'beast' had charged him... and slammed into the mesh, shredding and warping it beyond repair.
Yet today, it stood restored as if by magic, once again dividing the farm from the outside world.
And that bright yellow 'beast' he'd thought was utterly wrecked, belching smoke...
Woooong!
"Lord Nemo! Over here!"
"Waaah! It's huge!"
"..."
It had returned pristine and spotless—not a trace of the blood from the soldiers it killed.
"...Ah."
The realization darkened Vicente's face just a touch. Spotting him, lawyer Mr. Hewett blinked and sidled over.
"Good morning, Governor González. You look glum. Something troubling you?"
"Morning, Mr. Hewett. Sharp as ever. I've got worries aplenty."
"What is it?"
"Well... my men..."
Mr. Hewett's face clouded with faint sorrow.
'Ah, he's beating himself up over his subordinates dying on his account.'
"...Don't torment yourself like that. That battle wasn't your fault, Governor. No one's to blame for your men's deaths."
"...Hm? Oh, naturally. Why would it be mine? Who could've known Lord Nemo was here?"
"...?"
"...?"
Ordinary folk might've sunk into despair or writhed in guilt, as Mr. Hewett figured. If Vicente were the fragile sort.
But Vicente González, governor of Santa Elena under the mighty Spanish Empire—which ruled the Indies, the Philippines, and the Low Countries—wasn't one to agonize over such 'trifles'.
"Earthly suffering is fleeting; eternity belongs to the Lord alone. Battle or choking on gazpacho—does it matter, so long as they reach heaven?"
"...I see."
Above all, he was a devout 16th-century Catholic.
"...If it's not too forward, then why the long face?"
"Well, ahem, see, our soldiers fought against Nemo, an angel, didn't they?"
"Er... yes?"
"So they can't enter heaven, right? The survivors scraped by with chances to repent, but they didn't. How tragic is that?"
"...Hmm."
Made sense, hearing it out.
Mr. Hewett mulled it over, then replied.
"No need to fret. They'll make it to heaven."
"...Really?"
"Absolutely. Sins in ignorance, aren't they? How heavy can a sin be if you didn't know it was one? Devout as they were, salvation's likely."
"Aha."
Vicente beamed.
Problem solved!
"Thanks, Mr. Hewett!"
"Think nothing of it, Governor! Fine day to you!"
"Hahaha!"
"Hahaha!"
Vicente resumed his jogs. He'd swept the soldier issue—trivial anyway—from his mind.
Mr. Hewett, who'd helped kill those very soldiers, flashed a warm smile without a shred of remorse.
Salvation was predestined anyway—what did it matter?
Right. Above all, Mr. Hewett was a devout 16th-century Calvinist.
As the pair—fervently pious, a tad unhinged—geared up for their cheery day, Vicente pondered with a mind cleared of all cares.
'Hang on... I've got to seize our ships somehow for Lord Nemo.'
The four vessels he'd brought still sat off Croatoan Island's western shore, crews waiting.
Mishandle it, and reports to colonial HQ could doom the settlement.
Tense, he twitched his mustache and sank into thought.
For great Lord Nemo and Croatoan colony's glory.
For his 'true faith',
"...Aha!"
A brilliant idea dawned.
Two galleons and two pataches—four ships total—lay quietly at anchor on Croatoan Island's western sandy beach.
Salty ripples slapping the cannon-laden warships' hulls stirred unbearable boredom and dread in the sailors.
They yearned to shatter the silence—even if it meant blasting those guns till they burst.
Scouts hadn't returned.
If the island were vast, fine. But the governor swore two days sufficed for this speck.
Yet six days gone... Christmas passed aboard.
One conclusion.
"...All dead, right?"
The mutter jolted everyone; they hushed him.
No denials.
Hostile Indians or English colony massacre—dead either way.
But fleeing sans governor, sans orders? Mutiny. Track their trail at least.
"So... who goes?"
"..."
"..."
No takers for the death-isle's depths.
As they eyed one another and peeked into Croatoan's forest shade—
"Uh... uhh?"
"What, Hosea?"
"Uh? Th-there...! There!"
The cry sent all to the rails, islandward.
Tiny, faint... human shapes drawing near.
Proper clothes—no Indians.
Waving arms, jumping at the ship—not foes.
Then...!
"Th-they're back! Pedro's there!"
"Rope ladder, quick!"
"Only five? Where's the rest?"
"Ladder first!"
Silence shattered, excitement surged; they dropped the ladder. Splashing comrades neared with tidings.
Thud.
Five aboard the galleon deck—faces froze.
Blood-soaked rags; beggars, not sailors.
"Wh-what happened? The others...?"
Brave soul asked; one replied.
"Fuck... No English bastards here. No English, no colony—nothing!"
"Then why...?"
"Figure it out!"
"..."
"..."
One survivor sobbed; others sagged. One bellowed—ears perked.
"Indians popped up, poison arrows, fled. At first... just that.
Then dropping one by one, vomiting blood, dead. Touched the blood? Same fate. Just us left."
"P-plague?"
"Plague, poison—whatever. Gotta flee this hell...
Urk."
"Ughhh!"
"Uwooo!"
All five vomited blood, collapsing.
Onlookers blanched.
Traversing America, how many mates boasted "We got this!" then died?
Itch, scratch, rash—death.
Spanish Empire veterans, they. Savvier than crude English.
"Gahhh! Sail, now!"
Dump the doomed first.
"Idiot! Galleon with us alone?"
"Pataches then!"
Survivors fled the afflicted. Begging crawls ignored, backs turned.
Trained Spanish troops—no ship for enemies.
Mustered hands, sailed pataches seaward...
Boom! Boom!
Scuttled one galleon.
Left the other—theirs... and English plague gift.
Classic Spanish explorer cunning.
Pataches vanished over horizon with Spaniards.
"...Fine smoke show, lads. Pity one left, but my trainees—what're ya gonna do."
"Apologies, Governor."
"No matter. Let's claim it?"
Vicente smirked haughtily at the warship, proudly stroking his mustache.
"...Blessed news for our new lord."
"Splendid warship, 32 guns! More salvageable from the wreck!
This colony can fend off any threat!"
Yeah... sure.
300 souls, big warship, dozens of cannons—Spain won't poke unless serious.
"Well, Lord Nemo? Magnificent, eh? Fate itself guides this colony to triumph!"
...Why so thrilled?
Spanish governor days ago?
"Indeed, Mr. González! Incredible!"
"Haha, nothing much, Mrs. Dare."
"Huge boon to the settlement, Governor."
"Nonsense, Mr. Hewett. Thrilled to join this glorious path."
No suspicion? Instant buy-in?
Some weird camaraderie?
'Nemo's Arm Chop 'n' Regrow Show' fans bonding?
Manteo weeping in corner; others clap joyfully.
...Anyway.
Meeting rolled on amid chatter.
"Coastal batteries?"
"...Coastal batteries."
"Yes, Lord Nemo. Threats won't stop at us. Word spreads, powers covet—full assault incoming."
Yeah, you were the threat.
"So, repurpose ship guns coastside! Defend shore, build fortress—no invading this holy ground!"
"Ah, hallelujah!"
"...Really?"
"Yes. Add port works, coastal roads too. Ships mean options."
"Right! Roanoke leftovers!"
"Our splinter group's in Chesapeake Bay. Ships needed to retrieve."
"Hmm..."
All eyes on me.
Awaiting my nod.
'Heavy.'
I nodded.
Weeeeng!
Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!
Port and batteries underway.
"Here! This way—move it!"
PC panels no-go for mains. Light, invincible—but flammable.
...Limited for forts. No fire systems like my house.
"More mortar!"
"Gun ports here okay?"
Red brick, stone mix. Panels auxiliary.
"How's it, Lord Nemo? Island's first coastal battery!"
"Tribesmen pitched in!"
Red bulk, transparent patches...
Quite the sight.