Chapter 51
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Translator: volt
Chapter: 51
Chapter Title: Export
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They called it the grand "Agricultural Equipment Knight Investiture Ceremony," but it was nothing much.
"Mr. White, will you diligently follow the safety rules I told you about?"
"Yes! Of course...!"
"Good. Work hard."
And that was it.
...Well, it's not like they were going to swing swords around, clap shoulders, kneel dramatically in a cathedral, and proclaim oaths all cool-like. Do they do that when getting a heavy equipment operator's license? Never seen it myself.
Anyway, after casually teaching White the other safety protocols, along with how to maintain and operate the management machines and related gear, the no-frills "investiture" wrapped up.
"I'll... work hard!"
...But oddly enough, White's eyes were red around the edges.
I wondered why, but then I spotted Walter Raleigh right beside him dabbing at tears, and it hit me.
Oh, right. Knights are nobles.
Come to think of it, Raleigh himself had clawed his way from commoner roots through hellish trials to earn his knighthood and baronetcy. I hurriedly added to White,
"Oh, uh, it's not a hereditary title or anything. Think of it like a license..."
"Even so... it's an honor. You saved my daughter and bestowed this glory upon me... I'll devote my life to serving and obeying you."
Somehow... this reaction was way off from what I'd expected.
I just hoped no problems would crop up.
The next day, I took White and the others to my farm in Croatoan and rushed them through training.
"I may have accidentally knighted the first one, but from now on, Agricultural Equipment Knights will be selected only after rigorous training and verification.
No hereditary succession. Only those who qualify will receive such an honor."
"Ooooo...!"
"Ah, got it!"
"That's impressive...!"
Something still felt off.
Did I name it too pompously?
No. Up until now, I'd been the only one operating the farm machines, so in a way, this was sharing my "authority." Better to handle it strictly and imbue it with prestige.
Of course, I wouldn't teach them how to use things like the scythe mower or brush cutter that could double as lethal weapons.
The bulk of my work here was plowing fields, chopping wood, spraying pesticides for pest control, and spreading fertilizer.
If I taught those methods carelessly and someone caused an accident, my authority would take a hit. And if my authority crumbled here? The whole community collapses.
And if the community falls apart, my daily life is done for. This community is sustained by my authority and resources; my daily life is upheld by their loyalty and reverence.
Agricultural Equipment Knight isn't something to take lightly. Even in 21st-century Korea, heavy equipment operators need connections, and they get paid well daily.
Anyway. Got sidetracked.
"Now... I'll explain how to use the fertilizer spreader and the precautions. It'll smell, so wear masks while working."
The group gathered here—Eleanor Dare, John White... and about thirty others—hurriedly donned masks and hoisted fertilizer bags. Oh no, working like that with their backs will wreck their discs.
"First, everyone tear open these fertilizer bags and dump them in. Then we'll haul them to the vineyard."
"Got it!"
Work began, and with extra hands helping, it should've gone faster than usual... but no.
"N-No, don't pull it that way! Keep it straight!"
"Like I said... pressure control is key when spraying pesticides."
"Be careful with the sprayer. Over 40 psi strains it. Always set the pressure with the ball valve fully closed before use."
Teaching on the fly with a dozen people took two or three times longer than usual.
Still, the upside was that even if something broke, it'd be fixed by the next day.
Warnings like "Don't use it like this if you want it to last!" or "Using it this way for a few days will definitely break it!" didn't apply to us.
Cleaning, tightening, oiling, maintenance? All unnecessary. Even if we trashed them like mad today intending to discard them, they'd be fully restored tomorrow.
So, what I needed to teach them boiled down to two things.
"So... grab this valve here and watch the gauge..."
Simple usage instructions.
"Obviously, never point this at anyone when using it. Got it?"
Safety rules.
No need to teach storage, handling, or disposal. It took them a while to get proficient, but soon enough, they could roughly mimic me.
The next day, and the day after that.
"Eleanor! Grab the manager!"
"Over here, Will! Will! Set the pump here!"
"Mr. Bennett! Over here! Come carry fertilizer with me!"
...It got easier.
No more pulling all-nighters alone to manage the vineyard, or maniacally plowing thousands upon tens of thousands of pyeong solo.
"The sprayer dial doesn't show spray pressure. Always close the ball valve, set the pressure, then spray..."
"Refuel the pump outdoors only, don't overfill the tank, uh, and..."
About a month in, they could clumsily ape me, reciting the safety rules I'd drilled into them like holy scripture whenever handling tools, staying sharp.
Two months later, their form smoothed out a bit, and I'd spot-check, correcting mistakes on the fly.
Three months on, they could handle tasks independently.
Yeah...
Things finally seemed to be running properly.
"What's this?"
"...A valve."
"And this?"
"That's... tch. Not that important."
"Amazing! I never even imagined machinery this intricate could exist!"
Of course, Bacon would bombard everything with questions like a three-year-old toddler fresh out of the womb. Even seven-year-old Virginia didn't ask this much...
"Doesn't this part prevent backflow?"
"Y-Yes, Thomas! Brilliant deduction! Perfect timing—Nemo's passing by. Let's ask if your theory holds!"
Plus, Bacon had somehow disassembled machine parts with Harriet, debating what this and that were among themselves before quizzing me.
I don't know either. Nobody memorizes every single part when operating equipment.
"...Haha, I want you all to figure it out yourselves. That's how you grow."
"Aaaah...!"
"As expected!"
At times like these, I could deftly dodge like a professor too lazy to prep class, telling them to "study it on your own."
And so... the 32-member "1st Agricultural Equipment Knight Squadron" was officially invested.
"Everyone, applause!"
"Woooaaah!"
"Great job!"
No pomp again—just a simple feast and cheers to wrap it up.
I handed out crudely printed certificates on printer paper and made it clear: no cert, no touching the machines.
Everything squared away.
And the next day.
Vreeeeeing!
"Ha, haha..."
I savored the glorious feeling as I hefted the chainsaw.
Farming effort slashed in half.
Plowing, prepping and spraying pesticides, and all sorts of other tasks? Handled!
For instance, with so many pump operators, filling Chesapeake Bay's little wetlands was a breeze!
Sure, we only had one original pump and swamps galore, but replicating parts simply to make stove-cum-mini-pumps helped big time.
Replicating basic tools like this and training more handlers would make things even smoother.
Now... I could sleep eight hours a day!
Games not just once every month or two, but every day!
M-My quality of life... was back.
"Now we can even export wheat to England!"
"Finally, we can help England's food shortages!"
"Walter, bring back some spices and sugar this time. Would be great to make jam from the surplus grapes."
"Of course! I'll buy enough sugar to build a mountain!"
Harvests... increased too.
Ah.
Should've done this sooner.
Of course, issues lingered.
Population growing, more land to clear and forests to manage, but one manager, one excavator, chainsaws—each had limits...
Eh, problems for later.
Anyway, urgent stuff sorted, harvest season here—time for other work.
"Walter, grape freshness is paramount. Can we reach England in a month?"
"Of course."
Make it, sell it.
We aimed for self-sufficiency on basics, but shortages abounded.
Clothes for residents, muskets and gear for hunting, blacksmith and artisan tools.
To secure those, trade with England couldn't stop.
Loaded Styrofoam boxes brim-full of grapes, plus 2-3-year-aged wines beside them. Unfortified wine shipped across the Atlantic—what an achievement.
Naturally, since White originally grew food crops to sell to England, wheat and potatoes loaded too.
Finally, settlement jewelers' baubles—aluminum and gems I provided—wrapped carefully in cloth.
Plus meds for Margaret. Ship set sail.
Across the Atlantic to England.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
"Saintess? Saintess! Time to rise!"
"Mm... already 6 a.m.?"
As "Saintess" Margaret Lawrence rubbed her eyes open, church bells tolled distantly. Right on 6.
Maids swarmed her in nightgown, dressing and grooming her.
She'd insisted on doing it herself, but they refused outright. Over two or three years, she'd learned arguing was futile and let them be.
A court dress—still alien to the slum girl with no family—draped her body. Margaret waddled out the door.
"His Majesty?"
"Already up, finished morning prayers and breakfast. Just awaiting you, Saintess."
"Thanks."
Attended by maids assigned when she moved to Whitehall Palace, Margaret reached the door to the Queen's private chambers.
It opened to reveal the Queen in wooden corset and black-and-white dress, waiting. Maids patted her cheeks and neck with sponges of "foundation" and "concealer."
She'd used lead-vinegar whitening makeup, but Nemo blanched at the tale and supplied these new ones.
They mixed "moisturizer" and "foundation" on dry patches, dotted "pearl" and "blusher" on cheeks and forehead.
Tailored to her "personal color," cosmetics brightened the sixty-something Queen's complexion magically.
Elizabeth, gazing in the mirror with newfound confidence, turned joyfully to Margaret.
"You're... a bit late today."
"Ah... sorry."
"Not scolding. Come. My teeth ache lately..."
"Brushed?"
"After every meal."
"Toothpaste?"
"...The taste is unfamiliar."
"No. You must use it."
After prescribing painkillers ("Bu*fen" and "Tyl*enol"—exotic names) and supplements for the sugar-loving, toothache-plagued Queen, Margaret changed from dress to work clothes and headed out.
Palace guards clustered around her carriage. As she exited, citizens always waiting cheered and waved.
Her destination: Southwark, London's biggest pleasure district mingled with slums.
Once filth-ridden streets were cleaner, thanks to Baron Raleigh mobilizing guardsmen to scour slums.
Reaching the dockside clinic, her day truly began.
"Ugh! I-I'm dying!"
"Doesn't look like the Black Death."
"Disinfect the wound and apply ointment nearby!"
Now treating not just plague but myriad ills, the clinic was less crowded but more complex and hectic.
Margaret sweated buckets all morning before the patient line thinned and she caught a breather. But rest came only after evening for her.
"Soup kitchen's open!"
"Q-Quick, line up!"
The recently opened free kitchen fired up post-lunch. Ten percent of England trade profits funded clinics and kitchens by rule.
Today's menu: potato-onion soup. Volunteers peeled potatoes Baron Raleigh recently brought from London; others boiled and served.
"Miss Lawrence."
"Baron? When did you arrive?"
"Forty-seven minutes ago, peeling potatoes right beside you. Didn't notice?"
"..."
"Guess not."
Too busy, she'd missed him approaching. Raleigh set down his knife and said,
"So, not coming tonight either?"
His mansion's banquet. Margaret shook her head.
"I... live in the palace, but those fancy places don't suit me."
"Your presence would guilt more folks into donating. Tsk, shame."
"S-Sorry!"
"No, no apologies needed. All my fault for pressuring. Off to prep the banquet then."
"G-Good luck!"
Raleigh rode to his Durham House... evening fell.
But Durham House environs blazed bright. Elites flocked for the gala.
Nobles, rich merchants, gentry of solid stock—all bedecked in finery.
All... sporting London's years-long trend: aluminum brooches and necklaces.
They clustered statue-like in the lavish hall, whispering.
"You've waited long, everyone! Tonight's ingredients arrive!"
Host and bounty of fish, meat paraded in. Guests gasped.
"My God... see that?"
"How many are there?"
Not the fresh veggies, fish, meat from England's corners.
The ice-packed...
Styrofoam boxes holding them.
"Even Norfolk Duke mustered only fifty Styrofoam boxes!"
"My God... it's like all England's Styrofoam gathered here!"
Ice vendors surged around London; pre-banquet fresh ingredient boasts born from this.
Styrofoam boxes skyrocketed premium ingredients' freshness in England.
Plus, flaunting rare Shine Muscats, Ruby Roman, Black Sapphire? Boxes circulated as status symbols.
Nobles sat, gripped aluminum cutlery, eyed box-held delicacies greedily.
"Tonight's wine swapped Bordeaux for Virginia! Everyone, a taste!"
"Not Bordeaux? Shipped across the sea?"
"Even Sir Raleigh's fast ships... that's pushing it..."
Gulp.
"Ooooh!"
"N-Never-tasted flavor!"
Aluminum over silverware... American over French wine... Styrofoam on tables...
"Where's Drake now?"
"Probably raiding Spaniards merrily off the Caribbean!"
Margaret skipped the gaudy affair.
Yet, in truth, London's most modest banquet.
Anyway, that's how it was.