Chapter 47
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Translator: volt
Chapter: 47
Chapter Title: Guests from France (1)
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This year's grape harvest was exceptional.
The sugar content of the grapes was far higher than what I'd achieved farming in the 21st century, and their size and flavor were overwhelmingly superior to last year's.
"...".
"...".
"...".
On top of that, the newly expanded vineyards all yielded bumper crops, allowing us to export even more grapes to the surrounding areas. That meant we could acquire that much more fur, pearls, and various luxury goods in return.
"...".
"...".
"...".
So why was the atmosphere here so heavy right now?
"...Uh, Harriet? How many new people have arrived this time?"
Grapes are a crop that gets sweeter and higher quality the drier the weather. That's why grape farming is tough in Korea, where monsoon rains pour down like crazy right before harvest.
And.
Corn guzzles water.
The staple crops for the local natives around here are unimproved varieties of corn and beans. They're far less drought-resistant compared to our centuries-bred cultivars.
Of course, less water also means wild game doesn't thrive. Hunting and gathering yields plummet.
Our record-breaking grape harvest meant the surrounding native tribes were suffering unprecedented crop failures.
In other words...
"3,200 people."
"...".
"For reference, last month it was 2,500. The month before that, over 3,000."
It's now November 1594.
In just three months, our settlement's population had surpassed 20,000.
With the population nearly doubling overnight, the administrative structure we'd painstakingly built was starting to wobble. And it had happened right in the middle of the busy grape harvest, so we still hadn't properly allocated land to them all.
We hadn't even cleared fields for thousands more to farm. Projects like developing the silver mine or the planned corn fields for next year or the year after were on indefinite hold.
Food wasn't an immediate problem.
Potatoes always yielded well, and we'd stockpiled wheat instead of eating it, filling the warehouses to the brim. We had enough to last years without farming.
"We've rounded up all the horses to plow the fields. It's not a huge area, but we should be able to prepare land for about 3,000 people."
"Got it, Mr. Hewett. So now the worry is what to do with the remaining 5,000."
"...".
But land was short.
"Eleanor, Vicente, and Mr. White couldn't make it today either?"
"Ah... yes. They still haven't finished compiling the roster. Even with our tribesmen helping, it's..."
Administrative manpower was short.
"We need to hurry and procure timber. We need at least 600 houses right now, by a rough estimate..."
"For now, tell the natives to build their own huts, and we'll construct proper homes gradually."
Housing was short.
Just look at this meeting: Walter Ralegh was off selling grapes in England, and Vicente, Eleanor, and White were all too busy working to attend.
Everything was in short supply.
...This is driving me crazy.
Squelch.
"Mon Dieu! It's astonishing no matter how many times I see it. Such vast lands."
"Isn't it too much for the English and Spanish to hog all this? And to think a cure for the Black Death even came from here... How could God bestow such blessings on those English Protestants..."
"Didn't those English Protestants support our king?"
François Grave du Pont and his nephew Samuel de Champlain cautiously made their way through the unfamiliar grasses of America, looking around.
Mysterious melons lay overripe on the ground, smashed, pecked at by passing wild animals and birds that fled at the sound of humans.
"Strictly speaking, they haven't hogged it all. There are savages here."
"Hmm..."
"Be careful. The English say most of the savages here are simple and good-hearted, but those cunning folk are known for their shameless lies."
"Though our own explorers didn't say otherwise."
With that, François gestured, and the rest of the expedition boldly stepped through the shallow grass and rough trees.
And then.
Phewwwt!
An arrow thudded into the ground at François's feet.
As everyone tensed and raised their guns, François calmed them with exaggerated gestures.
"Whoa, whoa... easy now. Didn't you see? It landed far from my foot. It's clearly a warning shot. As long as we don't approach further..."
"#@$#%...!"
"#$#%$...!"
Incomprehensible language echoed from the woods, tensing the mood François had just eased. As the brave men raised their arms, nearly naked warriors burst from between the trees.
As they aimed various weapons, François reluctantly swallowed and raised his gun.
Ha... If only we could communicate somehow.
If it's a bad encounter from the start, better to kill before being killed.
With that resolve, François placed his finger on the trigger.
"...Wh...ere."
"...Huh?"
"Where... are... from?"
A halting voice recited.
For a moment, he thought it was one of his men and turned, but they stared ahead blankly too. Overjoyed, François lowered his gun and spoke.
"France! I come from proud France! Have you learned English? Have the English been here?"
English would be better if it worked. It meant they'd encountered Europeans before.
As François spoke in English, they whispered among themselves and nodded. The man who'd spoken stepped forward first.
"Me, Usamequin. This place, chief."
"A chief is a king. We French always show respect to the rightful monarchs ordained by the Lord. Pleased to meet you."
"...".
"So, where did you encounter the English? Could you tell me the location or time..."
"Wait."
Usamequin cut him off and silently nodded to the other men. They vanished into the brush briefly and returned with something.
It was...
"...Oh."
A crown.
A scepter.
Symbols of royal authority gleaming pure white. Made of silver?
"For respect. Put on, they said."
As Usamequin donned the crown and grounded the scepter, his status as ruler of the area became even clearer. François involuntarily bowed his head in surprise and whispered to Samuel.
"...European regalia!"
"Re...ga... what's that?"
"Ah, nothing, Usamequin. Nothing at all."
"...Gift, this is."
Usamequin spoke in his still clumsy English, but now with far greater dignity.
The French, who'd been wary of savages, relaxed, awe creeping into their voices.
"Gift...?"
"Yes."
"From whom?"
"...".
"...".
"...Raleigh."
Raleigh! Walter Ralegh! Baron of Roanoke!
The queen's confidant, London's saint, lord of Virginia!
François shuddered at the name, but nearly fainted at Usamequin's next words.
"Raleigh... chief's gift. To our emper...or. Great... chief."
"...".
"...".
They glanced at the crown.
It didn't look English-made. Silver or platinum maybe, but the texture and color were subtly different.
Then there was only one answer.
"Where... does that great chief live..."
"Sea, far, south... That's all... I know."
"...".
"Captain, th-that looks like the aluminum we've only heard rumors about!"
New World aluminum.
Samuel exclaimed in shock.
"Mon Dieu, the New World's emperor really exists...!"
Thwack.
François lightly smacked the back of Samuel's head.
"Talk sense, Samuel. It's obviously the queen's story."
"R-Really?"
"Yes."
"El... what?"
"Nothing, Usamequin. Besides Baron Roanoke... er, Walter Ralegh, was there anyone higher-ranking?"
"...".
Usamequin shook his head. François slowly turned to his nephew.
"See? Even Chief Usamequin says he hasn't met anyone besides Walter Ralegh."
"B-But the aluminum..."
"Aluminum trinkets? Even England's queen wears them dangling everywhere now. And why would a savage emperor give European regalia to his vassals?"
"That's... true."
"Exactly. If you believe in a real savage emperor, you'd believe in London's saint and the angel too."
François Grave du Pont was a Catholic.
So he couldn't buy the sudden angel story in a Protestant country. Honestly, no one outside England believed it, Protestant or Catholic.
"So, you think that none of France, Spain, or England's explorers found this savage empire until England planted a colony, and poof, it appears?"
"...No, that doesn't make sense."
Samuel bowed his head chastened, and François nodded.
In Europe, François's view was conventional wisdom.
A noble Christian savage emperor in the New World? Only superstitious sailors or Englishmen believed that nonsense.
Countless explorers had traversed North America. All they'd found were sturdy huts and feather-adorned naked savage chiefs.
And suddenly, right after England sets up a colony, a hidden empire emerges?
With technology superior to Europe's? Handing out unseen resources for free?
The English from the 'peace-loving island nation' hadn't plundered, killed, enslaved, or expelled them, but lived in harmony?
And 'just then' illiterate women met an angel and brought a Black Death cure?
Above all.
'...They trust England?'
A country whose king abandoned his faith to remarry a pretty woman? The least trustworthy nation on earth?
Ridiculous. Only fools trust England.
No matter that France and England were allied against Spain, François couldn't trust them.
Didn't they fund the royal treasury with piracy?
And England had every reason to spin such tales.
Good PR: contrasting their virtuous colonies with Spain's exploitation of poor natives.
Brag domestically about allying with a mysterious New World Christian monarch.
For luxuries: 'Not blood diamonds like Spain's. Our good native emperor gifted them. Boo-hoo.'
"That damned 'native emperor'... does he have a magic pot spewing endless gold, gems, and resources? Giving it all to the English?"
"Th-they said it's trade? Who knows, maybe it really was peaceful?"
"Right. With bullets."
"Ahem."
Usamequin frowned, unable to follow their rapid French.
"Ah, sorry, Usamequin. No intention of disrespecting you."
Worried the mood was souring, François handed over compass and flint and withdrew.
He'd decided.
He'd come here on royal orders for preliminary work before building a small trading post for luxuries.
Normally, King Henry IV would block going too far south to avoid friction with England.
But... there were too many tempting fruits south now to give up.
'Pretend it's coincidence, approach the English colony, uncover the 'native emperor' hoax.'
Then find other sources of precious aluminum and furs, trade with natives.
That was his goal.
True to European common sense, François never doubted England's propaganda was false. The 'native emperor' was just a novel cooked up by England's whore queen Elizabeth and her pimp Walter Ralegh.
Who'd believe that?
"Ahem, hem, harrumph..."
"Something wrong, Lord Roanoke?"
"Nothing. My ears are itching for some reason. The native emperor once told me itchy ears mean someone's badmouthing you."
"Hahaha, amusing fancy. Her Majesty awaits."
Dressed to the nines and doused in perfume, Ralegh entered the queen's bedchamber with an odd feeling.
"Walt! Come here. Tell me more about that marvelous ship."
"My queen..."
The queen of the world's least trustworthy nation and her favorite minister were enjoying a rare pleasant time together.