Chapter 17
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Translator: volt
Chapter: 17
Chapter Title: John White
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I finally understood what they mean when they say time flies by like an arrow.
A whole year had passed in the blink of an eye.
In January and February, I first reorganized the materials I'd downloaded from the Rural Development Administration website before returning to farming. Then, to expand the vineyard, I planted rootstock cuttings all over Croatoan Island.
The rootstock I planted was the 101-14 variety.
101-14 rootstock is ideal for growing grapes in sandy loam soils with a lot of sand mixed in, making it perfect for the conditions on Croatoan Island.
I'd originally planned to use Teleki rootstock, but since this place was the goddamn origin of phylloxera, I opted for a variety with stronger resistance to it.
Once these rootstocks take hold, I'd prune branches and graft on top Clear Water or other cultivars. That was the plan.
It was a hassle, but if I didn't do it this way... well... the phylloxera mites could wipe out every last vine. Sigh. Wine grapes are normally just propagated by cuttings anyway. Whatever.
It would take two full years after planting the rootstock for the trees to fully mature and bear fruit, so this was a long-term strategy.
Anyway, after spending the first two months like that, March and April rolled around, and I got busy with sowing seeds.
Plowing the fields... sowing lettuce, cabbage, Brussels sprouts, tomatoes, beets, and the rest from the kitchen garden... planting spring potatoes too...
The soil here wasn't quite right for them anyway, and they'd suck up all the nutrients, but for seed preservation, I harvested some corn and planted a small amount again...
Yeah. This was around the busiest time, as I recall.
Still, Easter fell in there, so I got a bit of a break during that period.
Once all that backbreaking work was done, spring gradually gave way to summer. North Carolina's climate is milder overall than Korea's, so the summers were pretty hot but manageable.
Why?
Because there were no goddamn rainy seasons!
Back home, the monsoons meant fighting soil erosion with everything you had, preventing crops from rotting in the humidity, and even adding organic amino acid products to boost photosynthesis in the grapes...
Ah.
North Carolina is sunny and clear.
Rainfall is steady throughout the year, and summers aren't especially, horrifically humid.
In short, it cut down a ton of the labor needed for farming, which made things way easier.
That's when my main job as a grape farmer really kicked into gear.
Around May, after the flowers fully bloomed, I did the first gibberellin treatment on the Shine Muscats to keep seeds from forming and help the fruit grow better.
Then, during the first enlargement phase that followed, I maintained the vine's vigor and applied the second gibberellin treatment.
The Shine Muscats, hit with gibberellin twice like that, would swell up again, and around then I'd bag the clusters to protect the fruit from pests and diseases.
That got me through the summer and harvest months of July, August, and September, repeating what I'd done the previous year when I first arrived here. And with that, the grape harvest was wrapped up.
Another wave of trade goods washed over us, but this time I was brewing wine from the start and cycling through the gift economy, so I managed to offload the massive quantities without issue.
Brewing wine was crucial. Christians used it for Mass, sure, but it was also an everyday drink. And the Shine Muscat wine I homemade... well...
It tasted like absolute shit.
So this time, I put extra care into growing the 'Clear Water' grapes. Once word got out I was cultivating wine grapes, Europeans started showing up one by one to gawk.
"These grapes look different from the others. More... ordinary?"
"It's a variety called 'Clear Water.' Used for winemaking."
"Clear... water?"
"Ah! Just like how Moses struck the rock with his staff to give the Israelites clear water, Sir Nemo is giving us clear water too!"
"...Pardon?"
Yeah. Conversations with these folks lately tend to veer off into weird tangents without me even realizing.
For example...
"Wait. Clear water?"
"That's what God gave the Israelites when they grumbled against Him, right? And then He cursed them not to enter the land of Canaan?"
"Uh...?"
"We've... we've done something wrong to Sir Nemo again! It's not about the wine tasting bad—it's the thought he put into it for us, and all we do is complain..."
"The Shine Muscat wine... i-it's delicious! I'm fine with just Shine Muscat wine!"
And so on.
Sensing the mood turn sour too late, I set down the sprayer and watched Eleanor and the others.
"...Pardon?"
...Seriously? Homemade Shine Muscat wine is okay?
"Yes! We're more than satisfied with just Shine Muscat wine, so don't worry! We don't need this 'Clear Water' crap..."
"Get your hands off that. Hurt the grapes, and there's no more wine. Ever."
"..."
"..."
I'm not okay with it.
Lots of people can make tasty Shine Muscat wine.
Just not me.
Anyway.
Of course, with the population exploding several times over, I couldn't focus solely on grapes.
While managing and harvesting the grapes, I also did second crops of lettuce, cabbage, and Brussels sprouts. Timing the harvest to avoid the first frost was another chore.
While the whole village tended their kitchen gardens, I collected the small corn crop for seed storage in the fridge.
Managed the seed potatoes for fall planting and retrained folks who failed at spring potatoes because they weren't used to them.
Handled all sorts of village admin on top of that, so I... well...
"Wh-whoa, wait, you can't eat potato leaves!"
"No! You threw it away because it looked like a dirty dirt clod? That's the potato fruit!"
"Sigh... let's start with the cabbage. Fertilizer... uh... you didn't apply any?"
...felt like the village head.
Shouldn't modern folks time-tripping here be teaching pre-modern people how to farm? Why am I the one teaching them?
Why come to me to mediate conflicts? You're Spanish—go to your commander Vicente.
I thought 300 people was manageable, but teaching them farming, interpreting between language-barrier groups, managing public facilities... I needed ten bodies.
And since I was the only one who could operate equipment, I handled weeding with the brush cutter, drove the forklift to construction sites, and tilled tough fields with the tiller.
I dragged Eleanor in to share the admin load, but she burned out, and so did I.
After all that ordeal, we made it through another year. We had a proper Christmas this time and welcomed the new year safely.
The number sharing that joy had grown from about 30 to over 300.
Spending a year together had built some bond—Spaniards, English, Algonquins, all singing some half-known song around the feast.
And so.
1590 dawned.
Vroom. Vrooom.
Rattle-rattle-rattle.
"Whoa, wh...?"
"C-Can I really ride in something like this?"
"Why not, Eleanor? Don't worry—just buckle up first."
"Ah... yes!"
I maneuvered the beat-up Damas this way and that, and Eleanor looked around in wonder. Makes sense; it was the first time I'd carried anyone since time-tripping.
I hadn't really used the Damas properly for a while.
The Damas has crap safety ratings anyway, and with its high center of gravity, even a side gust could flip it.
So unlike 21st-century Korea with its roads, driving it through 16th-century Croatoan's swamps and forests was nearly impossible.
Vroooom!
Vicente... must've had it rough.
"Of course. Worked through the night for weeks maintaining it."
Until the roads were built, that is.
How'd we make them? Spaniards insisted we needed a port for the ships, and roads to the port.
Roads ground out of cement, sand, and tons of labor. Way rougher than a neglected 21st-century dirt road, but good enough that the Damas wouldn't flip...
Thump!
"Eeeek!"
"...Probably."
"R-Really?"
"...Most likely."
...Right?
Anyway, the key was I could finally drive the Damas outside the farm and settlement.
Its original purpose was hauling small grape orders to the courier, and its cargo capacity had been handy for fertilizer bags and grapes inside the farm.
Even if it was motorcycle-level compared to modern cars, in this era—especially this horse-less colony—the Damas was unparalleled.
Rattle-rattle-rattle!
...Vibration too. Couldn't tell if I was holding a steering wheel or a game controller.
After bumping along that shaky 1km dirt road, the forest thinned, and the view opened up.
A vast, flat sandy beach stretched out, dotted with red-brick and precast coastal batteries. Beyond them, simple port facilities.
Our galleon was there.
Ship's name... 'Nautilus'.
...Because I'm 'Nemo'.
Old name scrapped. Vicente said something like, "It's spiritually reborn now, so it should bear its new master's name."
People everywhere loading cargo, shouting orders. Manteo and his Algonquins soon pulled up beside the Damas to unload.
Eleanor fidgeted a bit, then turned to me.
"Will Father really come?"
"..."
"You know today is... Virginia's third birthday. It'd be wonderful if she could see her grandfather... if Father is even still alive..."
"Virginia."
I cut her off.
"Will definitely meet her grandfather today."
"..."
"So relax and go. Safe travels."
Instead of turning, I checked her expression in the rearview and side mirrors.
Something dropped from her eye, and she got out of the Damas.
"Th-thank you... all of this... it's all..."
Her voice choked up before she could finish.
She ran toward the Nautilus.
And soon, the galleon set sail from the coast.
...Not gone for good.
She'd be back soon.
August 18, 1590.
The day Eleanor's father returns.
"There! Roanoke Island!"
"Drop anchor and launch the boats! Hurry!"
As the two ships reached Roanoke's shore, relief supply crates were stacked on the beach one by one.
A group of men pushed through the rough surf, landing and scanning the surroundings.
"Mr. White, is this the place?"
"...Yes. The settlement's a bit further in, but... this is the island."
John White replied in a deflated voice to the subordinate sent by his patron, Sir Raleigh.
'We weren't... supposed to leave Roanoke.'
All dreams start so sweetly.
From when Queen-favored Sir Walter Raleigh secured rights to colonize America, to appointing trusted John White as governor—everything rolled smoothly.
He gathered devout Puritans for the expedition. With Raleigh's support, he thought he'd assembled capable colleagues and sailors.
But the nightmare began the moment they set sail.
The mad captain had no interest in building a colony.
He wanted to kill them all, seize the ship, and pirate Spanish vessels for riches.
"Simon Fernandes, that bastard...!"
That scum had arbitrarily changed the colony site from Chesapeake Bay to this backwater Roanoke. Teeth still ground at the memory.
Was it smooth after arriving at Roanoke?
No.
Promised supplies never came, hostile tribes attacked, they botched an attack on allies and ruined diplomacy—misfortunes piled up.
Finally, hounded by settlers for supplies, he boarded a ship to England... and what happened?
Naval war with Spain.
The Queen conscripted nearly every ship to repel the Spanish invasion and banned private voyages. Even Raleigh's pleas fell on deaf ears.
He waited a year and a half like that.
Once the big war ended and the ban lifted, White scrambled for a ship by any means.
But no one would fund a voyage to a colony that might not even exist anymore. Plus Spanish attack risks.
Another year wasted.
Over two and a half years later, he finally set out, returning now after nearly three years away.
Virginia, a newborn when he left, must be three by now.
Eleanor, 21, a mature lady past her girlhood.
The settlement, three years on, surely thriving. Maybe they'd even moved elsewhere without that villain captain's meddling.
If they were alive.
"..."
He knew the truth.
Three years was an eternity.
A colony begging for relief, abandoned that long? The outcome was obvious.
Especially hostile with natives, poor location to boot.
"Mr. White! Why are you standing there? We can't waste time!"
"...J-just a moment, wait a bit."
"What's wrong?"
"...Nothing, nothing at all."
But White shook off the gloom.
Yes.
Beyond those bushes, his beloved daughter and granddaughter surely waited. Grumpy son-in-law too, settlers scolding him for being late.
Rustle.
He'd apologize. Sorry for the delay. War and royal orders left no choice. Few merchants even came here.
Rustle. Rustle.
Exhausted in body and soul, John White would collapse into his daughter's arms, weeping. His overgrown granddaughter toddling up, asking who the old man was.
Rustle! Rustle! Rustle!
He'd rub his bearded face against hers and say: I'm your grandfather, and you're my granddaughter.
I longed to see you... so very long.
You... and your mother, my daughter... so...
"...Oh, my God."
"Mr. White? I don't even know how to... say this."
"..."
So very much.
Crunch.
John White pushed through the bushes, emerging from the underbrush. His eyes fell on the settlement where his beloved daughter should have waited...
No.
The settlement where she should have been waiting.
Thud.
His legs gave out, and he collapsed.
"Mr. White... is this the right place?"
White couldn't answer in human words.
"Uh, uwaaagh...!"
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Aaaah! KyaAAAAH!"
No colony stood before him.
Only half-burned ruins.
"H-here! There's writing! Graffiti or something..."
"Eng... land... vir... gin. Oh, damn it. It's in Spanish."
Raleigh's subordinates' voices pierced despite him not wanting to hear.
All signs pointed clear.
Spanish troops... those damned Catholic pigs...!
He didn't want to think further, but horrific images flooded his mind.
People butchered, daughter screaming in agony, dead granddaughter, burning homes and furniture...
As he wept, Raleigh's men fell silent, realizing no words could comfort a father who'd lost his only daughter.
The merchants wore defeated looks and returned to the ships. Soon, only White and Raleigh's men remained before the ruins.
After tears and silence...
"R-return! Now!"
A shout from the shore.
White turned at the sudden call. A sailor came running, yelling.
"W-warship... galleon incoming! Board now!"
"...What?"
The only English colony here... just confirmed destroyed.
Spanish graffiti found nearby.
Then this approaching galleon... no way...
"Shit! Spaniards!"
"Mr. White, get up! Hurry!"
Raleigh's men yanked White up, half-dragging him as they ran. But cresting the bushes, they saw the two merchant ships already fleeing the shore.
"Y-you mad bastards! Ditching the passengers!"
Their own ships abandoning them to save themselves. Cursing wildly, Raleigh's men bolted inland.
White stared seaward with unfocused eyes.
A galleon approached majestically. Too late to chase the fleeing merchants.
"Ah... aaah..."
Those devil hordes killed my daughter and granddaughter, now come for me.
White suppressed his scream, following Raleigh's men. Splashing and shouts stabbed his back.
Faster... must escape. To not die...
...Huh?
His frantic pace slowed amid Raleigh's men. Alarmed, they turned. White murmured.
"...Can we even live by fleeing?"
"..."
"..."
"I'll die here. Go on without me."
"Mr. White! Our employer Sir Raleigh..."
"Go."
"..."
"..."
Murmurs grew; they ditched him and ran. Alone, White walked toward the burned settlement.
Crunch.
Over the collapsed palisade gate, to the house he'd lived in.
Here... he'd believed a new life awaited.
From lowly commoner to New World gentleman, noble, living lavishly with his daughter.
All dreams reduced to ashes and soot, scattered here.
"..."
He found a rope. A suitable tree outside the house.
"Over there!"
"The others?"
"Caught 'em!"
"Search the settlement!"
Voices murmured. Ha... Raleigh's men caught already. Pity.
Devils who killed my daughter, behold. A father of one you slaughtered dies miserably.
Suicides don't reach heaven—he'd wander hell. But White didn't care.
A world without his daughter was hell already...
Flash!
Sudden rage boiled.
He glared at the noose he'd just made, then bellowed.
"May heaven's wrath strike the harlot calling herself England's queen! Elizabeth, who doomed my daughter with her voyage ban—may she burn in hell!!
O Walter Raleigh, devil whispering false hopes, lewd pimp pleasuring the queen in bed, filthy imp... curse upon you too!
And finally, you Spaniards! You're all hellbound!"
He fetched a stool, climbed...
Thud!
Kicked it away.
Neck tightens...
Can't... breathe...
"D-Daddy!"
My daughter's voice...
She's... waiting in heaven...
Sor... ry...
This unworthy father... goes to hell...
Whish!
Snip!
...Huh?
Thud!
Rope snaps; John White's body hits the ground. Consciousness fades. Vision blacks from the edges.
A Spanish-looking man yells far off; others rush in.
One's Manteo. Ah, my friend. You're in God's kingdom too.
Another, lawyer Mr. Hariot. Proper gentleman... even radical Calvinists reach heaven. Didn't know.
And finally... uh...
"Daddy! Daddy!"
My... daughter...
He blacked out.
When he awoke.
"...Huh?"
He was on the Spanish ship.
"Wh-what... how...!"
"You're awake? Raleigh's hirelings are in the stern cabins."
"Mr. Hariot? What's going on? Why are you on a Spanish ship...?"
"...Don't worry."
Thomas Hariot said with a dazed, almost mad expression.
"You'll... meet 'Him' soon too."
"...'Him'? Who?"
"A most... noble one. Higher than any earthly lord."
Something was wrong.
Something seriously wrong.