Chapter 63
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: volt
Chapter: 63
Chapter Title: New Start
-----------------------------------------------------------------
“Gonzalo... Rodríguez?”
“Yes, that's my name. Slave trader.”
As Gonzalo spoke, the port manager glanced at the small ship visible behind him and tossed out a comment.
“Come on in for now. You've done a brave thing. Crossing the Atlantic in times as dangerous as these.”
A brave deed.
Crossing the ocean had always been a test of courage, but these days it was an even more deadly gamble. Especially for Spanish merchants.
“Didn't run into any Englishmen?”
The reason was obvious.
It was all thanks to the infamous Francis Drake and Walter Raleigh.
There were plenty of other pirates, but none as dogged as those two. They hounded Spaniards indiscriminately, and for some reason, they were especially ruthless toward slave traders.
So when a slave trader speaking Spanish made it across the Atlantic, he deserved a pat on the back. Slave supplies were already wobbling these days, after all.
“Well, we pretended to be Dutch merchants, and they let us pass.”
“Hahaha! I ought to try that myself.”
The port manager took a liking to the merchant's nerve and boldness. And look at that outfit—not a speck of grime, like he'd sailed in from the next port over instead of traversing the Atlantic.
“So, how many slaves did you bring...”
“Sold the rest off elsewhere already, so just thirty for now.”
“...Hmm. They're in fine shape, so no complaints... Not many make it across in one piece these days. Anyway, this way. We'll stash the slaves somewhere suitable.”
“Hey! Haul those things to the barracks!”
“Got it! You—speak Spanish?”
“...”
“...”
“...”
“Fuck it, just follow me!”
While Gonzalo and the manager chuckled their way toward the tavern, a short-tempered porter herded the thirty tense slaves along.
They arrived at a suitably shabby, suitably rank barracks, and he flung open the door.
As the slaves wrinkled their noses at the stench, the porter lit a torch in the dim room's depths and hung it on the wall.
“Fresh meat! Say hello to each other, puke your guts out, do whatever!”
He cackled as he shuffled off, and the new slaves finally relaxed, drifting slowly to one corner of the long, narrow room.
Then the eyes turned their way.
Backs crisscrossed with whip scars twitched, weary gazes stared blankly at the ceiling without focus.
From amid these hollow, doll-like figures, someone stepped forward and spoke.
“N-new guys? You look clean. What's your name?”
“...Cheyenne.”
“Where you from... ugh. Stings.”
His back trembled, freshly scored with whip lines like he'd just taken a lashing.
“H-hey. Your bunks are over there—move it. Work's simple, no need to...”
“Does your back hurt?”
“Y-yeah... so?”
“Want me to treat it?”
“What?”
The man gaped in shock, and someone who looked like the spokesman for the thirty slaves stepped up, pulling something out.
Madecassol.
He squeezed the strangely shaped ointment onto the man's back... and the fellow stammered his thanks amid confusion.
“Y-you a shaman or something? Thanks. Your name...”
“Cheyenne.”
“Shaman Cheyenne, got it. What spirit do you serve?”
“...”
“D-did I say something wrong...”
“You.”
Cheyenne spoke up.
“Ever heard the name 'Nemo'?”
“First off, as you commanded, we've selected thirty volunteers to organize the local slaves.”
“Frankly... we were stunned when hundreds volunteered, but we culled it down. Had to check abilities, you know.”
“They boarded ships crewed by Vicente's sailors and set off for St. Augustine, the heart of the Florida colony.”
“Now they'll start leaking info to the slaves, bit by bit.”
“Best profession for building trust? Healer, right? We got assorted remedies from Mrs. Dare and taught basic first aid, so things should kick off smoothly.”
A few days passed. The man revealed his name was Wayetu, of the Bay people. His wound healed swiftly, and he expressed his gratitude to Cheyenne with real joy.
“T-thanks to you, it closed up fast. That ointment's a miracle! Can't whip up more here?”
“...Sadly, no. I didn't make it myself.”
“Ah? From that famed spirit, then? What was the name... Nemo?”
“He's no spirit. He's an emperor.”
“Emperor? Of where?”
“...On second thought, maybe a spirit after all.”
“What kind of talk is that? Emperor and spirit? Where'd they nab you?”
“...”
“...”
Cheyenne immediately huddled with his comrades, murmuring about whether to reveal “it” now or play it safer.
Crack!
The sound of a whip striking a slave echoed from outside. Precious property elsewhere, but here slaves were used up and discarded like free scraps of paper.
“...”
“...”
A brief silence.
“Hey, don't you trust me? You're the first to salve a half-dead wretch like me—what's so earth-shattering about it?”
Unable to contain his curiosity and tension, Wayetu muttered heatedly, and at last Cheyenne leaned in to whisper in his ear.
“We weren't captured.”
“...What?”
“We... came to free you.”
“...”
Wayetu gawked like a fish out of water, and fresh cracks of the whip rolled in from the window like waves.
Liberate...?
Cheyenne spoke cautiously.
“Ever heard of... Virginia?”
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
... Thud.
The sound of a body collapsing.
Wayetu instantly rounded up every slave in the room.
And they whispered with Cheyenne through the night.
“There, everyone's free, and everyone gets land.”
“...”
“...”
“And they bow only to 'Him.' No one else. All equal.”
“Th-that 'Him' is the emperor...”
“'He' is more than a mere emperor.”
“Then?”
On a topic too secret to leak outside.
“He... isn't human.”
And so the prayer circles began.
“From there, we'll gradually win over those around us.”
“Spread word of Virginia among the other slaves. The effect? Crystal clear.”
Hope.
“Just look at Florida's state—pure hell for slaves.”
“Death closer than life, ruled by whips and kicks and terror, not law.”
“Classic fallout when settlers get unlimited freedom and rights: sexual debauchery, rampant violence, utter chaos.”
“In that pit, they'll encounter hope.”
“And join our side. Our cause is just, after all.”
“...Is that so?”
“Of course! Look how flawless our plan is! Every step executed to your exact orders!”
“...”
Me...?
When?
Raleigh finished his rundown and added more, leaving me dumbfounded.
I'd asked if he could connect me with some conscientious Spaniards.
And... to set up escape routes for slaves.
Things like that. But I'd never told him to build a covert network and infiltrate Florida...!
You did that...!
“Such divine foresight lighting our path—we can only stand in awe! Holy community of Virginia, endure forever!”
“My god, organizing Florida's slaves into a force? The strategic gains defy imagination!”
“Incredible! You foresaw it all?”
“...”
Of course, with reactions pouring in, I couldn't very well say, “Uh, no clue.” So I crossed my legs solemnly and nodded with grave dignity.
“Nothing special. I'm just glad Walter grasped my true intent.”
“As expected!”
“Wooo!”
“...Anyway.”
Suddenly awkward, I uncrossed my legs.
“Seems like we can achieve a lot with this. What's the immediate play?”
“Oh, plenty. Passively, we gather key enemy intel. More aggressively, liberate slaves or sabotage facilities!”
...I nodded again, as if I'd anticipated it. Walter flashed a sly, knowing grin.
“Of course... we can't expect miracles right away.”
“Slaves alone won't cut it. Need to recruit more.”
“In my view, it'll take a little time.”
“Current results are plenty. No need to push too hard yet.”
“Thank you. I merely followed your commands...!”
...Told you, no.
Months passed.
Cheyenne and the others were auctioned off across Florida or handed out free to new settlers, scattering the prayer circles—dinner fellowships, whatever you called them—like seeds statewide.
Even scattered so thinly, a covert hierarchy and network wove itself among them, impossible to stamp out.
The first thirty became “priests,” leading “masses” and offering reverent rites to Nemo in the strictest secrecy.
Those they branched out to became dinner hosts and “deacons,” gathering slaves, vetting the trustworthy, and inviting them to masses.
“Father... a new 'believer' has arrived.”
“Worthy of sharing mass?”
“Yes. Told them of His Holiness the 'Pope,' and while others puzzled, this one teared up quietly. Kept hounding me later about other gatherings...”
“Don't trust too quick. Not till 'baptism.'”
This was Catholic turf.
So their code words and whispers naturally adopted Catholic terms.
They chatted casually in Spanish by day, reserving their tribal tongues for “religious” talk.
Soon deacons topped five hundred, believers three thousand; “parishes” sprang up with no priests, just deacons, alongside spontaneous prayer groups of believers alone.
Rumors rippled through them.
Nemo.
He's the native emperor, they say. Lives in a house of gold, commands millions of soldiers, born of noble blood.
Nemo.
Nah, he's a shaman. Wields mighty powers, tames iron behemoths, makes farming effortless for his people.
Nemo.
Wrong again. He's a spirit. One who turns to those crying his name, shedding tears alongside the blood-wept.
O, devil-slayer with weeping saw, bearer of cold radiance.
Hear our pleas.
Hear our sorrows.
Hear our... longings.
And grant them.
His kingdom, Virginia.
His vast domains, boundless wealth, righteous laws.
His people rest in peace, reveling in freedom.
You could too.
Soon live free there.
You too...
...
...
...
“...That ill omen of a rumor?”
The rumors were spread vague on purpose.
Larded with half-truths and distortions to blur fact from fiction.
Tales of a native emperor or spirit.
To Spaniards, just slave babble; to weary slaves, intriguing enough to prick the ears.
Dismissible to skeptics, irresistible to potential allies.
“Know what the slaves are yapping about lately?”
“Yeah. Drake and the native emperor gonna smash Florida and free the slaves.”
“...Half-killed the one spouting it. Farm's quiet now.”
“We're infested like fever. Caught 'em carving idols in a corner, praying—smashed it all, whipped 'em raw.”
“Satan worship... They should embrace the Lord's will...”
Just as the first thirty foresaw.
Cloudstuff spread like clouds.
And from it...
“Y-you're really sent by 'Nemo'?”
“...Yeah. Over that hill, run north nonstop. You'll escape.”
“...”
“Ship's waiting. Tell 'em 'the nobody' sent you.”
Escapes happened now and then.
Spaniards never dreamed the rumor-ghost had backers. Figured they fled to woods or sea, or offed themselves.
Most Spaniards flat-out refused to believe the tales anyway.
Horrible demon aiding slaves? Just spoiled their sleep.
'In his lands, all sing free.'
'No taxes, even.'
They already had no more wants. Ordinary Spaniards had men and women to serve them, lording over their little farms like kings.
'Vast plantations for all.'
'Livestock, seeds, homes for all.'
The greediest wrung every drop of labor for more land and slaves, building huge estates with dozens, hundreds—those songs grated worst of all.
And.
“...Really? Vast farms and livestock?”
Near St. Augustine farm, one ambiguously greedy man.
A man squeezed between the contented slave-owning majority and the ruthlessly acquisitive entrepreneurs.
His name was Asuero.
Asuero didn't indulge like other planters, keeping a dozen local women.
His farm was perfectly average. Size for five or six slaves to wring profit from.
He wasn't overly diligent, nor slothful.
He simply... stewed in discontent.
“The land they divvied up... it's kinda meh, right?”
“Suits me fine...”
“Aren't we on the front lines against the English colony? Land for risking our necks, and this is enough?”
“If you see it that way, no...”
Asuero was deeply dissatisfied with the status quo.
He believed his family had served the mighty empire as mercenaries their whole lives.
While other conquistadors snubbed the colonial authorities for sidelining their hero, Hernán Cortés the Aztec-conqueror, he and his father stayed loyal, hoping for crumbs.
Even called traitors and opportunists, he swallowed it down.
Now comfort awaited... or so he thought.
But... what was this?
Stuck me on the front lines, not the rear?
Land near St. Augustine—prime English target. And they put me here?
Absurd.
After generations as the empire's sword, expanding its domains, the empire couldn't slight me like this.
Couldn't abandon me to English threats. I wanted to be a New World lord, not some countryside squire trembling at pirates.
The soggy marshes showed no sign of clearing.
Slaves weren't just lazy—they were shiftless; whips never rested.
Life micromanaged under pretext of imminent English raids.
Every bit infuriating. And this world's fringe had no pleasure dens, taverns, gambling halls, theaters—days dragged endlessly.
Just one thing.
“Malco.”
“Yes, master.”
“Fetch the whip. That devil-spawn daughter's hands are too slow.”
“S-s-sorry... m'lord... hurt my hand yesterday...”
“Why should I care about your hand? Whip's here.”
“Good work, Malco. Strip the rags off that thing and drag her here.”
“P-please! Mercy! Anything! I'll do anything!”
The thrill of dominion was all he had.
In this colony, authorities ignored anything not tied to English or defense matters.
Anything.
Out here, kill a few and bury—no one cared.
Blast a hostile native village—no change.
No one minded screams of native or Moor children.
Like his mercenary days in Brazil. Men lived like kings with dozens of natives; swap for black Moors, same deal.
Occasional nagging missionaries tsked as they passed. No manpower to watch every spread-out farm.
Thus Asuero spiced his tedium with maximal kicks each day.
“Master? No native hunt today?”
“Hm? Body's sore from yesterday's drink... Where're the slaves?”
“Off to some dinner meet, looks like. Spouting weird blasphemies again, no doubt.”
“Hm? Dinner meet?”
“Ah, you wouldn't know. Time for Satan-worshippers to babble nonsense.”
Until the day Malco let something slip.
Malco was the one Moor worth talking to. Loyal overseer, boon companion at his side.
“You know the rumors, right? Native emperor or spirit freeing slaves...”
“Heard 'em.”
“Dumb brutes even build shrines to that spirit. Similar at these dinners.”
Malco swept a scornful gaze around, as if the others were present.
“Some 'mass' or whatever among themselves. Probably sacrifice a poor beast.”
He knew nothing of the sprawling network's true shape—just grumbled.
“...I can't pin down this 'Nemo' rumor exactly. Spell it out.”
“Y'know... vast fields there, way bigger than ours, fertile plains, all slaves freed... utter hogwash.”
“Hooo.”
Malco clocked his master's interest and piled on.
Palaces stuffed with aluminum—a precious metal—and jewels galore.
Emperor Nemo despises slavery, showers huge treasures on any who free slaves.
Honors them as ministers, grants oily vastlands as reward, iron beasts till the soil instead.
Word by word, Asuero sank in.
“...Where's his territory?”
“North, in Virginia lands.”
“Virginia—English turf... hoo.”
Asuero felt an unknown instinct tapping his chest.
Rumors oddly specific.
Nemo himself vague, but wealth lists, iron beast details, gifts to vassals—finely etched.
True...?
Could brush off as bunk.
But a mercenary? He'd chased far hazier whispers of El Dorado.
His gut screamed.
Worth the gamble.
“...”
“...Master? Something wrong?”
“...Nah, Malco. You feel nothing?”
“Feel what?”
“...”
Asuero grinned.
“...Smell of money.”
Next day.
All his slaves who'd held dinner meets tortured near death.
No deacons or priests among them, but scraps sufficed for certainty.
This was it.
“Ugh... uuughhh...!”
Fresh-gutted slave clutched spilling innards. Gazing down, Asuero thought.
This was it.
If England threatens me.
And Spanish colonials snub me.
Enemy strikes, ally abandons.
Better join the enemy's side.
“Master, time to go.”
“Ah, one sec...”
At Malco's word, Asuero surveyed the blood-soaked basement.
“Euuugh...”
“L-live... mercy...”
Mutilated meat lumps, beyond speech.
Asuero tsked at the lot.
“...Pathetic scraps of intel. Why hide so desperately?”
Truth was, he knew.
Nothing clings like hope.
Virginia was their promised land, its emperor their savior. They couldn't betray that.
Not his problem.
He wiped bloody hands on a rag, tossed it floorward, and told Malco.
“Out now. Prep to sail for Virginia, yeah?”
“Yes.”
Packed already; task clear.
Newly bought dinghy, hug coast north.
Virginia.
The 'emperor's' soil.
To claim merit before the slave-benevolent emperor, get wealth and land... hm.
Obviously pose as kindly freer of slaves.
But had he treated his well?
Hmm... no.
Can't have bad buzz.
“...Malco, let's go.”
“Yes, master.”
They left the basement.
Stacked stones over the door.
Screams and clawing nails rang from within.
Asuero's problem no more.
He was bound for Virginia.
Land of true hopeful new beginnings.