Chapter 35
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Translator: volt
Chapter: 35
Chapter Title: Development
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"How much should these seed potatoes weigh?"
"30 to 40 grams."
"Grams...? What's that?"
"I don't know either. They say it's about one ounce per 30 grams."
"Jeez... I can't figure out why they're using this weird unit instead of the handy ounce and dram."
"Watch your mouth. You could get chased off without even a single potato if you're not careful. They said from now on, we're only using grams for weight."
"What's that supposed to..."
"I couldn't help overhearing your talk about drams and ounces."
"...Lord Nemo?"
"N-No, that's not..."
"As long as it wasn't, we're good."
Ugh, what was that? I swear I caught a whiff of some evil hexadecimal unit system lurking nearby.
Must've been my imagination.
Anyway, that's not what's important right now.
Let's check on the state of our community first.
"Cut the potato pieces to this size and plant them in the ground! Dig just this deep and you're good!"
"Everyone, plant them at even intervals! These are the crops Lord Nemo handed out to you himself!"
The new settlers were managing to get established, somehow.
They'd arrived around April, a bit late, but they'd jumped straight into farming anyway. Everyone was tilling their kitchen gardens and securing their own food supplies.
"Y-Yes, Lord Nemo! C-Can I skip lessons tomorrow? I only got four hours of sleep last night!"
"Lord Nemo! J-Just oversee this potato field with me! Please, Lord Nemo...!"
Er... seems like everyone's getting by just fine.
Or not. Whatever.
The hundred or so English folk from Croatoan Island were dying inside.
For the crime of having settled in America a few years earlier, and for the crime of having grown potatoes and other crops by then, they'd all been dragged out to Chesapeake Bay.
"Huff... huff... Even this tiny amount, just a few grams, is the perfect size for seed potatoes..."
"But what's a gram?"
"J-Just memorize it! This is the eighth time I've explained, and if you ask again, I'll cleave your head with this sickle...!"
They weren't getting proper sleep and had been thrust into the role of farming teachers out of nowhere.
But what can you do...? There aren't many others who've successfully grown potatoes.
And you guys? Hey, count yourselves lucky. Take a look at Manteo and his tribesmen over there.
"Hey, you idiots! Do it right!"
"Why are you cursing?"
"What are you planning to do, eat it? You wanna starve this winter?!"
"Eat it...? It wasn't supposed to be eaten?"
"You can't eat this!"
"Huh, really? That's the seed? It looks like that?"
"...I'm going insane."
Of the Chesapeake colony's residents, over 6,000 were natives.
Manteo's tribesmen numbered around 200, and even fewer were able-bodied adults who could work.
While the Roanoke English were teaching with one instructor per seven or eight learners, Manteo's side had over fifty clinging to each teacher, asking endless questions.
And the ones the tribesmen were teaching? Other natives. Which means...
-"What...? You don't hunt and eat the 'beast,' but use it as a 'farm tool'...?"
-"You dig the 'soil' before scattering the 'seeds'...?"
Yeah. They had to start from absolute scratch.
Manteo had already collapsed from overwork four days ago.
Everyone who'd been with me for over a year had to step up as farming instructors. Me? No way. I'm an angel, after all.
Still, that didn't make things easy for the learners...
A lot of the English had come here thinking it was some milk-and-honey paradise, based solely on Walter Raleigh's reckless hype.
Drunk on dreams of striking it rich in the New World, they'd nearly lost their minds when an angel's talent show crashed the party, followed by mandatory farming classes.
And then.
"You should all learn Algonquin too!"
"...Why?"
"Because you'll be teaching the natives how to farm."
"...???"
Thomas Hariot, was it?
That guy's doing great. Teaching the English Algonquin and the Algonquins English, promoting mutual exchange (aka farming lessons).
And so, everyone in the settlement was groaning under farming lectures and foreign language classes.
Whew... total chaos, but unavoidable.
Getting thousands of semi-nomads settled, plus folks from thousands of kilometers away on the mainland? If this is the effort it takes, it's a massive success.
No one's starved to death yet, and no blood's been spilled.
That's how our community rolls on.
Moderately peaceful(?), moderately hectic.
So what do I do?
Nothing special.
Just hauling meds around, interpreting here and there, managing vineyards, tending the injured, overseeing kitchen gardens and seeds, running maintenance on potato fields, spraying pesticides, carting building materials for new settlements, mediating fights...
You know, everything.
...Haa.
Of course, there's still more to do after all that.
"M-My God! Wh-Wh-What's that, Lord Nemo?"
"...A forklift, Mr. Bacon. You take a silent cart and add arms to it."
"Uwaaaah...!"
"We're taking it to Chesapeake Bay."
"...How?"
"Well... maybe build a ship?"
Bacon flips open his notebook like a madman and starts sketching, while Shakespeare gapes with his writing stalled. So many Croatoans had gathered to gawk that there was no room left to drive the forklift.
Anyway.
The Zhongyuan before humans cleared it was half jungle, half swamp, right? Same here.
Mostly forests and wetlands, so clearing land for farms means logging and reclamation are essential.
To chop Chesapeake's trees and yank the roots fast...
We need machines.
Ones that can handle hundreds of man-days at once.
Yeah. Build a barge, hitch it to the Nautilus or another ship... Anyway, maybe we can haul it from Croatoan to Chesapeake?
You might worry about our one excavator plunging into the sea. But it's fine. I tested it.
Last time the maintainer got stuck between rocks, I panicked and sweated bullets, but past midnight, it was back in the warehouse. Looks like if it hits 'immobile' status, it not only repairs but respawns too.
Thanks... Huang Suk Software...!
Now, just one problem left.
"We just need to build a ship that can carry a 10-ton forklift!"
"..."
"..."
"...Lord Nemo?"
"Yes."
"That seems like the biggest problem."
"Vicente, your problem lies within your heart.
People fear what has no form. Don't dread failures that haven't even arrived yet."
"...Ah!"
I said it to Vicente, but suddenly Shakespeare next to me starts scribbling furiously, like he'd gotten a burst of inspiration.
...What? Out of nowhere?
"Anyway, we'll find a way. Even if we fail, we've got nothing to lose, so don't be scared."
"Wh-What if the ship breaks? We'd lose a ton."
"That won't happen."
Er... probably.
"How about using these boxes we use for grapes?"
"No styrofoam."
"Er... why?"
Crush.
"Pamlico Sound's waves are brutal, aren't they? Building a ship out of that would be dangerous."
We tried it anyway, and the result...
Kaboom!
...It crumpled under the forklift before it even hit the water. Ah, why didn't we think of that?
Anyway, problem's more complicated now. Needs to be sturdy enough for the forklift's weight, light, and plentiful enough to whip up a ship quick. No way we have something like that as consumables at home...
"Here! Liquid fertilizer's empty, so I brought the tank. Where do I toss it?"
"Wash it clean like always and use it as a water tank in empty houses... Wait, huh."
Huh?
IBC tank. Intermediate Bulk Container.
Why didn't I think of that?
Light? Remove the steel pallet bottom, and it's plastic.
Sturdy? Wrapped in a steel frame, obviously.
Shape? 500 liters, nicely sized, square rectangular—stack 'em like blocks, plank the top...
Instant wide barge.
We collected IBC tanks used as water barrels house-to-house, wired 'em together. Dozens, hundreds piled on the sea... and they floated, rocking gently.
Success.
Bolt planks on top, load the forklift...
Thud!
...Done.
"Success!"
"We floated that monster on the sea!"
Perfect. Barge complete, forklift aboard? Means we can ship any heavy gear—even to Damascus—across the sea.
Beyond Croatoan, that is.
"Whew... someone's gonna suffer hauling that. Looks like we hitch the barge behind and tow it to Chesapeake."
"Yeah. One hell of a risky voyage."
"..."
"..."
"Thanks for your hard work, Vicente."
"Figures it'd be me."
Of course. Pay for trying to kill me three years ago, Vicente!
"Forklift? If the Lord wills it, it'll return even broken. Barge? Plenty of materials; rebuild if it busts.
But if the Nautilus breaks..."
"...Got it. I'll do my best."
Vicente Gonzalez, age 48.
The first human nearly crushed by a forklift.
Will he become the first human sunk at sea with one this time...!
"Hah... huff... I-I... lived..."
"Good work."
Fortunately, neither the forklift nor Vicente Gonzalez sank.
After days of epic towing, it arrived at Chesapeake Bay, drawing crowds going wild.
And.
Rumble rumble boom!
As expected, Chesapeake's farmland exploded in size in seconds.
Logging itself doesn't take long. Digging soil and uprooting stumps completely? That's the hard part.
We're after cleared land, not timber, so stumps gotta go entirely.
With the forklift on it, work sped up exponentially.
Dozens of hectares cleared instantly, divvied to Algonquins and English. Late April now, just in time for some crops—lucky.
Using the timber from clearing, they built houses and churches, moving out of cramped cabins to settle Chesapeake proper.
Oh, and one more thing. Unlike Croatoan, Chesapeake doesn't have infinite clean water.
"Ugh... urgh...!"
"Bad diarrhea! The kid won't stop...!"
"Give this antipyretic first! Margaret!"
"IV fluids here!"
A few got hit hard with dysentery and fevers. I placed leftover IBC tanks from barge-building at every affected house.
"Fill these with water, add a bit of this liquid. Never touch or drink the liquid itself."
"O-Okay!"
"Remember! Boil all water for a while!"
Bleach the water or boil it.
Just sharing that simple fact cleared up the mystery illness in days. Folks regained calm.
Villages and settlements sprouted; the colony grew. Once the frenzy died down, Walter Raleigh visited.
"My God... I never dreamed it'd actually work."
He teared up, half in awe.
"Just recently, I was on the brink of bankruptcy... Now thousands in the colony... And that timber! Incredible! You can't even see oak that size in England anymore!"
"Really?"
"Yes. For that size, we'd import from Russia, Denmark, Sweden. Especially after losing dozens of ships to the Spanish sea battle—timber shortage must be chaos now."
"Then just take it back."
"Haul something that big and heavy across the Atlantic? Even loading 300 horses and cows was a huge challenge. I staked my life on it."
"Hmm..."
"Sigh... If only there were a way to ship it, gaining the Queen's favor would be a breeze."
Spain, huh.
Yeah, America's got Spain.
They'd sent warships here already, thinking it might be an English base. We'd even clashed.
Ideally, England gains a decent edge in any war with them—keeps things safe and comfy here...
And even without warships, fast transports for exports would help us too.
"Uh, Sir Raleigh? Can't we build ships here?"
"Hahaha. As if! We'd need timber first, skilled sailors, shipwrights, all sorts of gear... uh... gear..."
"..."
Raleigh's eyes widen, staring at me.
He realized it too.
This place has the world's best gear.
"..."
"..."
"...Got any designs in mind?"
"I do. I don't know ships well, so mind if I show sketches?"
"Of course."
"Follow me to Croatoan."
"Right."
And so Raleigh and I returned to Croatoan settlement.
I fired up the computer, captured and printed screens from the 19th-century city-builder 'Anno 1800'.
"I'm clueless on sailing, so not sure if this works."
"Haha! No worries. I've judged ship designs plenty, so I'll take a good look and... assess..."
"..."
"...Has a ship like this ever existed? Where'd you get this drawing...!"
Figured 19th-century ships beat current ones, so...
I read from the printouts.
"Ship name's Cli...per? Clipper."
"Sail layout... unconventional. How fast is it?"
"No idea. Just something I heard."
"My God, Lord."
Thinking he'd received divine blueprints, explorer-cum-Queen's-toy Walter Raleigh's eyes blazed.
"If built, its speed would be unreal! I guarantee it! Clipper! Snappy name too!"
The seasoned sailor sensed it intuitively. I still had no clue.
"Then we'll need shipwrights and designers pronto. Time to head back to London anyway."
"Back? To London?"
"Yes! Arrive in two to three months! Plenty want to fetch families, so recruiting'll take months..."
"...A year round trip, then."
"Pardon? Well, yeah."
"Tsk... Be careful, then."
"Of course! I'm always cautious, sailing or no!"
"No, not sailing. London. Plague'll be going around."
"...Pardon?"
"Early May now; you'll hit London right as plague starts in August. Watch your health."
"..."
"Oh, and take some things. These vitamin pills. One per crew every few days prevents scurvy."
"...Scurvy? With those pills?"
"Yes."
I showed him the vitamins from my pocket, then unstrapped my wristwatch and handed it over.
"Fixed to Croatoan time. Use it for time on ship to calculate longitude. Map too—no position issues."
"..."
"And... uh... Oh, protective gear. Spraying suit for pesticides. Wear it with contacts, cuts plague risk. Masks for crew on arrival."
"..."
"And one more medicine before you go."
"...Medicine."
"Yeah. Might work; inject at right time to treat plague."
"...Tr-Treat plague? Inject means...?"
"Hmm... Take Margaret Lawrence later. She'll explain. Don't forget bleach in water."
"...Urp, wha?"
"Sir Raleigh?"
"..."
After dumping all that, Raleigh looked dazed.
Like a storm had swept through him.