Chapter 16
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Translator: volt
Chapter: 16
Chapter Title: Grams, Liters, and Purgatory
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1589, New Year's.
The Shine Muscat grapes didn't have much time left. They were starting to go past their preservation period and lose their flavor. I figured I'd have to do something else with them. Make wine?
...I'd had enough of that makeshift Shine Muscat wine. Starting next year, I'd have the domestic wine grape variety 'Cheongsu' available.
Anyway, it was the first New Year everyone was spending in the Croatoan colony, so the place was buzzing with excitement.
And I was...
"Cabbage, lettuce, cabbage, corn, potatoes... What else? Oh, tomatoes."
I was sorting through my list of 'crops I could grow'.
For livestock, I just had chickens. Kokko and Dakdak had already started a little family. Especially the hens—their numbers were growing steadily, so soon I'd be able to hand some out to the villagers.
But what I needed to focus on right now was...
"...crops."
Yeah. The colony's population had suddenly jumped to 300, so I had to figure out how to feed them all with farm produce.
Of course, most of them were natives, so no huge worries there. These folks had been thriving in the area for ages; even if farming flopped, it wouldn't mean mass starvation.
It would just erode the colony's unity.
To firmly settle all 300 here, I needed to meticulously plan a full year of farming starting now.
From March, when planting season ended, to September's harvest—a solid six months. And with time already allocated to Shine Muscat and other grapes, labor efficiency was key.
"...First things first, expand the grapes."
I'd overlooked something crucial. Wine was essential for Europeans—especially Christians of this era.
I couldn't keep drinking that Shine Muscat swill forever, with its total lack of proper acidity. At least I had actual wine varieties on hand.
I'd already scouted land for new plantings, so it was time to prep the soil there.
For one, phylloxera—the killer of vines, the scourge of vineyards, the farmer's arch-nemesis—was lurking somewhere in this land. No way could I just propagate Cheongsu cuttings directly.
Ultimately, I'd have to plant phylloxera-resistant rootstock and graft onto it. A long-term project that needed time.
With that, grape farming was sorted for now.
Excluding grapes, I had a ton of crop varieties. Thanks to my mom, who'd thrown herself into her veggie garden back home instead of mingling with neighbors after we went rural.
Thanks, Mom! I'll bow three times toward the Korean Peninsula on Parents' Day...!
Anyway, for February and March planting: lettuce, cabbage, more cabbage, tomatoes, potatoes, and so on.
Among them, lettuce, cabbage, and especially cabbage were priorities.
Low resource and labor needs, double-cropping possible. No wonder gardeners plant tons of them.
"Especially... more cabbage."
Better to grow veggies familiar to European tastes.
Introduce tomatoes cautiously, focus on well-known ones like beets.
Once planting season hit and grape season rolled around... back to the grind.
This time, harvesting not just Shine Muscat but Cheongsu, Black Sapphire, and more. Expanding vineyards too? I'd be swamped.
If not for the 300 extra hands...
It would've been brutal.
"That should do it."
I stretched after a few clicks, saving the '1589 Farming 1-Year Plan.hwp' file.
The real work was just beginning.
1589.
My first spring here was coming.
...Yeah.
Suddenly, things to sort before farming popped into my head.
Goldsmith William Brown rang the 'doorbell' at Nemo's mansion today, too, eagerly awaiting the New World's gold: 'aluminum'.
"Mr. Brown, could you wait a moment?"
"Ah, of course, Lord Nemo. As long as you like."
After a long wait, Nemo finally emerged from the mansion, arms loaded with unfamiliar, intriguing items.
...Strange? He usually just handed over aluminum cans and foil.
"Mr. Brown? I have a favor to ask."
"Anything! Just don't cut off the aluminum supply."
"Anyway, remember that 'electronic scale' from last time?"
"Of course! Ever since, I've prayed to God daily for one of those precise scales..."
"The time has come to use it."
"...Pardon?"
With that, Nemo led Brown to the warehouse. Opening the aluminum shutter revealed rows of mysterious machines and materials.
"Ah... Always a sight to behold..."
"This way, Mr. Brown."
"Yes, Lord Nemo."
They grabbed another large scale and headed to Brown's workshop.
Villagers peeked out, curious about the morning rush, but Brown dashed on, eyebrows furrowed—Nemo seemed unusually urgent.
'What could be so important...'
Thud.
"Is this right...? No, this is. Still... once done, no regrets. Last chance to think. Is this correct...?"
"What on earth is it, Lord Nemo?"
William Brown wasn't particularly devout; he was thoroughly worldly.
While most English settlers here were driven by Puritan zeal or a shot at a better life, Brown's goal was simple.
Gold.
The shiny stuff.
So even as others bowed to Nemo as a 'great angel', Brown saw him as an aluminum supplier and treated him casually.
Faith was abstract; wealth immediate.
"...Mr. Brown."
Gulp.
But Brown reconsidered that thought just now.
For some reason... Nemo's face, setting this solemn mood, looked holy. His already handsome features hardened with resolve, radiating charisma.
"Ah... uh... that is..."
"Today, the task I entrust to you is vital for our colony."
"Y-yes, Lord Nemo?"
"It holds deep meaning for me too. Please give it your all."
"O-of course! For you, I'd dive into hell!"
Brown startled himself. Was I always this faithful?
Or was it that 'scene' from the Spanish battle—shocking, unforgettable?
No idea.
Anyway, as Brown pounded his chest with resolve, Nemo smiled, nodded, and clapped his shoulder.
"Then, here's the task."
"...Yes."
What followed was far from Brown's expectations.
"First, some studying."
"Yes, of cour—... Huh?"
"Look at this scale. What does it say?"
"...'g'?"
"Read it as 'gram'."
"Gr... gram..."
"Its 1,000 times is kilogram."
"And between th—"
"We skip those. Its 1/1,000 is milligram."
"Milli...gram."
"From now on, only these units for weight! I'll enforce this system exclusively."
"..."
"..."
"...C-could it be."
"Yes."
"That... is the Lord's will?"
"..."
"..."
"...Uh... yes, roughly. The Lord's will."
"Ah, aah...!"
"Make weights in this system. And similarly."
Rustle. Rustle.
"This container's volume is 1 liter. Written as capital 'L'."
"Aaaah...! Just milliliter and kiloliter too?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
"..."
"Thanks. Make them as precise as possible and distribute. Harvest season's coming."
"...What does farming have to do with—"
"I want to distribute pesticides, fertilizers, seeds fairly and accurately. That's... uh..."
"...the Lord's will?"
"...Roughly. If your efforts prevent needless strife and chaos, how beautiful would that look from heaven?"
"...Aaaaaah!"
Brown walked slowly to the workbench, then...
Rumble rumble rumble!
...dumped all the old weights on the floor.
"...Wh-why?"
"..."
"..."
"..."
Brown smiled through tears, grasping Nemo's hand.
"I... just banished products of sin."
"Uh..."
"Now, we'll use scales made by the Lord's hand...!"
"Ah... yeah, base-12 is sinful, sure. Good luck."
"Leave it to me...!"
Thus, Brown dove into work with unprecedented zeal.
"...Did I screw up?"
'Lord Nemo' belatedly regretted it.
Had he known scriptures compiling his sayings were already in the works, he'd have fainted.
The new unit system spread fast.
"Uh... 5 liters of pesticide, please!"
Splash!
"Next."
"Seed potatoes... uh... 20 libras more..."
"Drag him out."
"...Huh? Uwaaah!"
"Next."
"We need about 10 pounds..."
"This one too."
"Gaaah!"
In Croatoan, resources were distributed strictly by liters and grams.
To survive, everyone adapted. Even grumblers under Brown's threats quieted at 'Nemo's command'.
Unified units beat varying local ones—easier, intuitive.
With only 300 people and no royal 'arm lengths' meddling, resistance was low.
Thus, the 'heavenly unit system' spread across Algonquians, Spaniards, English alike.
And soon, to other fields...
"Huff, huff... 20 kilograms of stone, all moved."
"Hm... Now over there, dump 'em."
Rumble!
The massive grave construction site.
The 100-odd dead Spaniards from the battle had been hastily buried before, but their fellows grumbled, so: a proper cemetery.
100 stone mounds rose, 100 headstones before them. Names and ranks gleaned from comrades; rest reinterred in mass unknown graves.
The churchyard cemetery's opening ceremony.
"...Must I give the speech, Eleanor?"
"Of course. Who else but you, Nemo?"
"What about Huet?"
"Better you. Spaniards need to hear it from you to believe their comrades reach heaven."
"...If that's the reason."
We whispered, glancing at the waiting crowd.
All 300 colonists attended. No more delays.
I ascended the simple podium, facing them.
Just say nice things.
Maybe integrate the Spaniards. Nip conflict seeds.
"Ahem, all our island folk gathered."
"..."
"..."
"..."
...What next?
Why assume I'd recite an elegy? Everyone else knew but me. No prep—mind blank.
And their viewing me as mystical? Heightened tension.
...Whew, calm down.
"...Whose fault was the recent battle?"
Just nice things.
"The Spanish soldiers'? Algonquians' and Englishmen's? The English authority that built this colony? Or the Spanish colonial government that ordered the attack?"
"..."
"..."
"No one's fault."
Actually, Spaniards'. Why attack a failed colony?
Wait, England built this as a pirate base, right? Their fault too.
Natives blameless... Whatever. Pointless.
"...Yes. No one's fault."
Now one family—blaming sides dooms us.
"Sin and fault are too complex for a few whispers.
Sometimes pushed into sin, and the pusher often lacks malice. Say five ahead of stampeding cattle: straight kills five, turn kills one innocent.
Who sins: the one refusing to turn, letting five die? Or turning, killing one? Who breaks commandments?"
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Hard. A difficult problem."
Trolley problem.
They pondered deeply. Yeah, sounds profound.
"We crown kings, make laws for order, but too crude to judge all earthly sins.
Even the wisest's wisdom is dust to the Lord's. How can we tally man's sins?"
"Ah, aaaah!"
...That moving?
Thanks, Professor Sandel. I continued.
"These cold dead threatened me and the colony, but judging saints from sinners is for the Lord. Mortals can't kn—"
"Lord Nemo!"
"...Yes, Vicente Gonzalez?"
"Did my soldiers go to heaven?"
Did you hear? Mortals can't know!
...Bit back retort—his face too earnest. Improvised.
"If truly faithful, they'll head to heaven eventually. But atonement first."
"Th-then...!"
"Yes, true righteous pay, then heaven."
"Ah... aaa!"
...Good enough. Nice words.
Added churchy bits: repent, hallelujah, be kind, honor parents, sort recycling... etc.
Stepped down.
"...Sniff, sob. So moving, Lord Nemo."
Eleanor... ran up crying.
What...?
I still don't get this era's sensibilities.
"...Though a staunch Calvinist, with all now clear, I must concede."
That Sunday service, Huet furiously noted Nemo's 'revelation' before the flock.
-'True righteous pay atonement, then heaven.'
→ Place to atone after death.
→ Purgatory, or similar—not in Bible!
→ 'Sola scriptura' needs rethink!
"Thus, we must reassess... how much of the great reformers' doctrines to accept..."
Huet's head spun.
"Can't know law-keeping or good by man's will? Then... why burn Protestants...?"
Vicente's head reeled from the 'angel's' bombshells too.
"Then... perhaps the angel means: don't kill over minor doctrines?"
"Aah!"
"Ah...!"
That spark melted faint Catholic-Lutheran-Calvinist divides.
Thomas Huet and Vicente Gonzalez embraced in tears.
The great angel Nemo achieved old/new church unity 29 years before the Thirty Years' War.
The man himself savored his last cola and popcorn, watching 'Gurren Lagann: The Movie'...
Anyway, Croatoan settlement was peaceful today too.