Chapter 70
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Translator: volt
Chapter: 70
Chapter Title: Tractor (1)
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Just looking at the current situation, the answer was obvious.
Think back to why I developed the automatic water pump in the first place.
The pump itself wasn't that hard to replicate. It just sucked up water and spat it out. Not much different from a 21st-century pump.
The problem was the engine that powered it...
There were plenty of wetlands that needed draining, and I could replicate the pumps easily enough, but there was no power source to run them. So we had to use people or horses. Efficiency? Needless to say, it sucked.
After the Porter was built, we tried hooking its PTO—Power Take Off—to the pumps.
But power was still in critically short supply.
Windmills and waterwheels were limited to places with consistent strong winds or swift currents. They were hard to build, too.
So I made the automatic water pump.
And the power source to run it.
The steam engine.
Yeah. If I'd time-traveled to the past, I'd have to make a steam engine, right?
Mechanical engineering issues? The learning comics had simple diagrams of the structure. No problem.
Materials issues? My house spits out 21st-century steel and copper pipes. With the materials on hand, we could fabricate reliability-critical parts right here on the farm.
That's how I'd solved the problem just recently.
Now, over a dozen pumps were chugging away in various spots, and the power shortage was mostly a thing of the past.
And now, a new problem had cropped up.
Not enough food.
In other words, agricultural productivity was lagging.
Honestly... farming around here was ridiculously easy.
"...Lord Nemo? Are you alright?"
"Th-the summer floods didn't come, so we're thriving, Mr. Huet..."
"Indeed... Your thoughts are always on the settlers."
That's not it.
It's just that the years I spent farming in Korea felt so futile in comparison.
Waiting for the rainy season in summer, watching the soil crack dry the rest of the year, or dealing with weeds exploding after a sudden downpour.
With far less worry about water and weeds, that meant...
The labor-intensive periods were limited, unlike in Korea where we slaved away weeding and irrigating all day.
Planting and harvest were the busiest times; the rest was downtime.
And during that downtime, we cleared land...
Which was the hardest part.
The productivity shortage came down to a simple lack of land.
Forests and hills could be leveled in seconds with a backhoe.
But turning decades- or centuries-old wild land into permanent farmland?
We had the tools for it—easy to replicate...
But only one tractor to pull them.
Horses helped plow, but productivity was still low.
People pulling? Even worse.
We had few tools we could run simultaneously, and thus few operators.
So... the conclusion was clear.
Just like with the water pumps.
We needed steam power for land clearing.
In other words.
"...Tractor."
We had to build a steam tractor.
Flutter. Flutter.
...First things first, I'd devoured every learning comic, biography, and high school textbook in the house.
After my parents' failed return-to-the-land dream, the house had become a storage dump for family heirlooms. Post-time-slip, I'd pulled out and read every dusty book.
Thumbelina, Professor Know-It-All, and all those "Doctors" (who somehow had time to globe-trot with kids) became my guides.
-"Doctor! What's that?"
-"Oh, that's the first external combustion engine, the whatchamacallit! Peek inside the structure and..."
-"Doctor! What's this?"
-"After external combustion engines came steam locomotives and tractors. That structure is..."
...
...
...
Thank you, Mom, Dad...! For skipping the Comic May stories and getting me those weird learning comics instead... they're saving me now...!
After mastering those dozen or so "specialist" books(?), my conclusion was clear.
'The steam engines in tractors are simpler than I thought!'
Early steam engines were intuitively just boiling water to move pistons—far simpler and clearer than later internal combustion engines.
So, excluding materials and machining, I could build one.
And both were solvable.
I had regenerating steel and copper pipes every 24 hours, plus 21st-century machine tools.
That cleared the two biggest hurdles.
Of course, I couldn't do much with my pipes alone.
Steel needs hammering, cutting, drawing for big boilers and such—you can't make them from pipes. Not even modern factories do it that way.
But here, Queen Elizabeth of England's grace shines.
Vroooom!
"Here come the metal chunks! Get ready!"
Good work. Roanoke's blacksmiths...!
Every week, we loaded about four tons of scrap onto the Porter and shipped it to Roanoke Island.
Hm, wasn't the Porter's original capacity one ton? Who cares. It won't break.
The scrap returned as rough large parts, and our island's ironworkers lathed them smooth, machining to precise specs.
With 16th-century tech? Precision parts? Tough, obviously.
But that's why we broke free from machining limits.
Vreeee!
We had grinders.
Tinkering with spinning grinders got us makeshift lathes.
We machined pipes into precision bits on those hack lathes, then fitted them to cast large parts.
Assembled with rivets as the craftsmen suggested from the blueprints.
Lubricated the joints, prayed fervently that the universe would help...
And...
Chug, chugchugchugchug!
Screech! Screeeeech!
It turned.
It turned...!
The steam engine fired up, and the connected wheels creaked forward slowly.
Prototype stage—no steering or anything—but it was just the beginning.
"Wh-what can we do with that thing now?"
Someone whispered in awe to the air, and I wanted to answer.
Anything.
Literally anything.
I handed the craftsmen data and encouragement to refine the prototype, then returned to my regular duties.
"Lord Nemo, will that really solve our farmland shortage?"
"Yes. Absolutely."
I nodded at Huet's question.
"We'll need to keep tabs on the Florida issue... but this takes priority."
External enemies were distant; internal threats could shatter our community in an instant.
Of course, we'd monitor external threats too.
I'd been tied up with refugee issues and forgotten—we were at war.
War to expel the Florida colony. War to end slavery.
Vital to our survival, but not urgent right now. Still important.
"Walter, still in touch with the internal networks?"
With that in mind, I asked for a quick update.
"Hm... Yes. We are."
'Hm'?
I tilted my head at Raleigh's odd reply.
"Something wrong?"
"Oh, nothing major. Just some weird rumors filtering through the Florida networks. Seems to be drawing more people to our side..."
Weird rumors...?
I leaned in to Raleigh's words.
"A bizarre 'legend' is circulating."
January 1598.
Northern Florida colony.
Over a decade after Francis Drake's raid, the abandoned colonies were slowly rebuilding.
Mission headquarters and military bases were reestablished. Plantations rose under black slaves' hands and Spanish overseers' whips.
Spanish settlers from Spain or other colonies like Mexico planted tobacco, sugarcane, cotton—profitable exports.
Vast cleared lands needed labor. The settlers, dreaming of New World lordship, wouldn't touch the grunt work.
Over 80% of the population—slaves—tilled those fields.
They defended the colony from hundreds, thousands of attacking Indians.
They grew the cash crops.
Crack!
But they couldn't even lick the crumbs of the colony's wealth.
The master's rawhide whip cracked against the ground, sending slaves trembling, eyes down.
He smirked and lashed a nearby fence post.
More precisely.
"Guh... hack... ugh..."
"I-I can't understand your rage-filled hearts."
At the slave tied there, bleeding out.
Crack!
"I've sacrificed so much for you."
Crack!
"Didn't I read you the Bible every day? Unlike other masters, didn't I give you proper beds instead of straw?"
Crack!
"...So why did you do it?"
The bound slave slumped, barely breathing. Red welts marred his near-naked body.
"Servants, be subject to your masters with all respect, not only to the good and gentle but also to the unjust. (1 Peter 2:18)
I read that to you often."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"I may be a bit harsh. Whipping a slave for a little meeting might seem excessive.
But what can I do."
The slaves cringed as the whip swung.
"...I'm your master."
Twenty-three slaves gathered. Master's household: barely half a dozen.
They could overpower them... but Spanish colonial troops were minutes away.
Slave revolts had ended in massacres before. No one dared anymore.
Crack! Crack!
So no one threw themselves for a dying comrade.
His crime: hosting a 'prayer meeting'.
"Satan worship... Satan worship... You infidels won't listen without fleshly pain."
The master's seemingly kind eyes bulged red. He licked dry lips, staining them blood-red.
"Oh Lord! Lord! Why burden me with this hard civilizing duty?!"
"I-I never worshiped S-Satan..."
"..."
"J-just a prayer meeting. Reciting some Bible verses..."
"Then recite them."
"..."
"Recite those verses you memorized."
"Do not seek reasons when man redeems man. It is the Lord's sorrow!"
The master's hand froze.
...Unfamiliar verse.
Made-up, probably.
As he resumed whipping, the slave cried out again.
"The truth shall set you free! (John 8:32)"
Ah, familiar. Master's lips curved satisfied—then the bloodied slave, half-delirious, continued.
"Do not be bound by seeking faith's path! Denominational differences are trifles in the Lord's eyes..."
Master's face soured.
What nonsense.
Did that mean Englishmen and French Huguenots were all saved? Ridiculous...
Crunch!
While the master faltered, the bloodied slave shuddered, yanked the post free. Freed arms propelled him fleeing from the master.
Of course.
Crack!
"Gah, guh..."
Exhausted, he couldn't escape.
"Prayer meetings. Carving idols... inciting others... now reciting weird verses!"
The master recalled stumbling on their 'prayer meeting'.
Disgusting. Carved Indian-like idols, clutching them, mumbling tearfully—like writhing bugs.
"L-Lord! An-Angel! Angel!"
"...Hah."
Still raving.
The master raised his whip again. And...
Whoosh!
"...Wh-what?"
"The Lord hates slave masters. His, His Angel hates slavery!"
Suddenly, someone hugged him from behind. Stinking body— he shoved them off. A ragged, filthy-bearded man stared blankly at him, eyes vacant skyward.
"Wh-whipping slaves... is whipping the Lord... His Angel forbids it..."
"..."
"The An-Angel hates slavery...!"
"...That madman from the rumors?"
Enraged, he scanned around—the bloodied slave had vanished.
Near-death, yet escaped? Blood rushed to the master's head.
"Know the one we just lost is a Satan worshiper? The Lord's possessed by some devil..."
"The Lord's Angel hates slavery... ha-hates it..."
"..."
No reasoning. Deflated, the master dropped his whip. Tense slaves shuffled back to quarters, trembling.
"...So? The angel hates slave masters?"
"Y-yes... Yes. The Angel exists. He, He planted fear in me..."
"..."
"Fear of hell... H-hell..."
A hollow laugh escaped. Lost a slave and dignity to some lunatic.
Beating him seemed pointless; mind gone.
Deflated, the master chuckled weakly at the madman.
"What's... your name?"
"N-name... A-Asu... ero..."
"What? Couldn't hear."
"..."
"Fine, never mind. Then this angel you cry about—who is..."
"...Angel!"
The madman cut him off, eyes wild.
That day's vision still burned vivid before the madman's eyes.
The angel's words etched deep in his soul.
-"You deceived your own soul."
-"If you say you have no sin, you deceive yourself, and the truth is not in you."
-"You drove the Lord from your heart."
"I-I must repent..."
"What?"
"Repent... Eternal hell still chases me...! The angel watches me...!"
"...No, who is this angel you wail for?"
Persistent, the slavemaster pressed. The madman bellowed, soul-shredding, believing this name would one day terrify the world.
Believing it would conquer the world.
"...Nemo!"
Nemo!
He comes!
He will soon come to this land!
The angel's wrath will strike this land!
The madman wailed insanely, bolting off again.
Running endlessly, shouting the angel's coming.
The slavemaster didn't dare pursue.
Hearing that name spiked icy dread up his spine.
It was... the name those slaves chanted in their 'prayer meeting'...
Nemo.
And so the rumor spread again.
Of a madman wandering north Florida and beyond, into savage lands.
He trembled in endless fear.
He proclaimed the angel's advent till his throat burst.
'He will come someday.'
'He will crash like lightning upon this land.'
'His words will deafen ears.'
'His form will blind eyes.'
So he cried.
He was, in a word...
The Wandering Spaniard.