Chapter 10

…A lot has happened.

“Five… five hundred bunches of grapes?”

“That is correct. You have surely told the surrounding tribes that you would be sharing more, have you not?”

“Well, yes, of course, the surrounding tribes are clamoring for even a single bunch more, but…”

“Then take them.”

“…”

Manteo, seeing the look of pure relief on my face, tilted his head as if something was wrong and headed outside. Soon, a multitude of native people began to haul away 500 bunches of grapes in their baskets. That, too, was a sight to behold.

Yes. That was the biggest development of the past three months.

The Shine Muscat Gift Economy Network.

In that time, numerous tribes had tasted the Shine Muscat grapes and, like a Chilean witnessing an automatic taxi door for the first time, were unable to recover from the shock. It was only natural. The Algonquian peoples of this region were primarily semi-nomadic hunter-gatherers, even if they did practice some basic agriculture. They had never before experienced a fruit that had been so highly cultivated.

The surrounding tribes, having once tasted the Shine Muscat, all came to Manteo, asking if he could spare just one more bunch. In the end, Manteo’s tribe established a large-scale gift economy network, importing grapes from me in massive quantities to distribute. With his tribe at the center of it all, the authority of Manteo and his mother apparently grew quite powerful. At this rate, Manteo’s succession to the chieftainship would likely proceed without difficulty.

Thanks to this, our village is now overflowing with all sorts of pearls, coral, animal hides, and various vegetables and fruits. The settlers, as if they had never once worried about food, now spend their days happily, proudly flaunting their fur cloaks.

“Excuse me, can we eat that grass?”

“That’s a poisonous plant! Don’t go near it!”

“What about that fruit over there?”

“That one… yes, you can eat that melon.”

As our interactions with the natives unexpectedly increased, Manteo sent three or four of his people to our settlement to act as diplomats. Thanks to them, our settlers’ knowledge of the local flora and fauna grew immensely.

And one more thing.

“Mr. Brown, you said you were a goldsmith?”

“That’s right. I was quite successful in London, you know. I came here thinking this would be a land of gold, but…”

“Oh, dear. You must have been greatly disappointed.”

“What are you saying, sir? Have I not obtained something far more precious than gold? I thank the Lord for it.”

“Hahaha, that’s right. The friendship and experience gained in a place like this are indeed more valuable than go—”

“No, sir. I’m talking about that ‘rust-proof metal’! The one you gave us back then! You still have some, don’t you?”

“…Pardon?”

“…Pardon?”

It was only then that I realized the English colonists who had insisted on piling the empty cans in front of my house were not, in fact, racist, morally bankrupt individuals.

I mean, aluminum is more expensive than iron, but is it really a precious metal?

A metal that, by all appearances, will never rust.

A metal that is incredibly difficult to produce naturally.

A metal that is stronger than iron, yet lighter.

Ah.

That night, I spent hours until dawn digging in my backyard, searching for the aluminum cans I had buried.

And here was a pop quiz.

Is the aluminum foil in this house treated as a ‘Consumable’ with an infinite quantity, or a ‘Permanent’ with infinite durability?

The answer was ‘Consumable.’

A metal more precious than gold is being produced infinitely in my house!

However.

“…Is this all of the yaluminum foil?”

“It seems so, Mr. Brown. And it’s aluminum.”

“Al…”

“…uminum. A-lu-mi-num.”

It regenerates at a rate of about three grams per day.

Damn it. I should have bought more aluminum foil when it ran out.

In any case, the goldsmith, Mr. William Brown, was thrilled and set up a workshop, becoming engrossed in aluminum craftsmanship. He called it the ‘Gold of the New World’ and grinned from ear to ear, saying he was destined to become a rich man. Thanks to him, I was able to have a hand-sized statue of Mr. Choi erected by my bedside.

…And so, quite suddenly, I had become rich.

A flood of daily necessities and luxury goods poured in from all over North Carolina and Virginia. The aluminum, which was only slightly more expensive than iron back in my time, had become an incredibly precious metal (in the making).

“Truly, you are an incredibly wealthy man.”

“This… you’re saying this will really become that valuable?”

“Of course! As a goldsmith with not enough to do, I was worried, but now my worries are over. Hahahaha!”

Well, that’s what he said.

And another thing.

The settlement, now incredibly wealthy and at ease, could finally turn its attention from mere survival to another pressing matter.

“We must prepare our defenses before the Spanish arrive!”

“Sir… did we not leave our muskets and gunpowder on Roanoke Island? And the iron rods and lead blocks to make more guns and bullets are there as well…”

“There are probably many other weapons left there. We should go back and retrieve them.”

“That’s right! And Father will have no idea we are here! Shouldn’t we leave a clearer sign for him?”

“Hmm… that has merit. You should go and do so.”

And so, the settlers formed an expedition, borrowed a boat from the natives, and journeyed back to their original settlement on Roanoke Island. They returned with all sorts of weapons, and everyone seemed greatly relieved.

Well… of course they were. If the Spanish invaded, there was a high probability that every last person here would be killed.

But I no longer had the courage to say, ‘Psych! It was all a joke!’ so I just gave them a pleased smile. The settlers, who had come to regard me as their village chief, seemed to interpret my smile in a positive light.

A blacksmith’s forge was built next to the goldsmith’s workshop, and the work of making muskets and lead shot proceeded quickly. The ever-expanding settlement’s growth finally slowed, and a large stockade of logs was erected around it as they began to fortify their position. The people grew accustomed to a daily routine of carrying muskets, patrolling the vicinity, and watching for the landing of Spanish warships.

At this point, I really couldn’t say anything. If I told them it was all a joke now, I was pretty sure I’d get shot.

And finally…

“This is delicious, isn’t it? The Spanish say they are quite tasteless.”

“That’s because those people are spoiled, Mr. Hewitt. Born in a country with such fine weather and vast lands, how could they not be picky about their food?”

We harvested the potatoes.

…And, I’m sorry to say, but potatoes really are rather tasteless. People in the 21st century eat sweet potatoes that have been painstakingly bred for hundreds of years, but the potatoes of this era are, quite literally, flavorless.

Regardless, the potato harvest was a great success. I suppose I had underestimated the people of the 16th century. In this era, most people would have at least tended a small vegetable garden. Very few of the potatoes had rotted in the ground, and the yield was not bad at all. This time, I made sure to select only the best ones for seed potatoes and stored them in the walk-in cooler. When the time comes to plant again, I’ll chit them properly to sprout them. Then, next year’s harvest will be even larger than this year’s.

In any case, the successful potato harvest held a particularly special meaning for us. It wasn’t just that we had plenty of food as Christmas, the biggest Christian holiday, approached.

We had succeeded in becoming self-sufficient in our food supply.

“So… this colony has finally succeeded.”

Watching the settlers celebrate with a feast, roasting meat and singing songs, was a joyous sight. I watched them with a genuinely pleased expression, then turned to my side. Eleanor was sitting close to me.

“We’ve succeeded in becoming self-sufficient, and our relations with the native tribes have improved through the exchange of gifts. Everyone is tending their own fields and living… happily.”

I could hear a catch in Eleanor’s voice.

“…Just as my father promised them…”

She was covering her face with both hands. Tears were seeping through her fingers.

“I-I thought everyone was going to die… My husband died that way… and the others…”

Her husband, she had said, was a scoundrel with a terrible reputation. Still, death was death.

“Among them… there are some who wanted to become gentry, and some who fled London to avoid becoming whores. So many people came here with dreams… and they’ve achieved them.”

And then she looked at me. Her face, her eyes, glistened with tears.

“Th-thank you, Sir Nemo.”

“…It is nothing. It is thanks to all of your hard work.”

“No. If you had not saved us, we would have all…”

“…”

I gave her a moment. A moment to compose herself in private. After a long time filled with the sound of sniffling, her trembling voice continued.

“What… was your reason?”

“…”

“Why did you save thirty dangerous people without asking for anything in return? W-why…”

“…”

I paused, considering my answer. What should I say? What answer would make me seem like a ‘mysterious benefactor’? After some thought, I replied.

“…If one must find a reason to save another person, isn’t that too sad?”

“…Pardon?”

“Let us just say it was ‘just because’.”

“…”

I mulled over the words I had just spoken and realized that they were, in fact, the truth.

I just saved them.

There was no particular reason.

Hearing my words, Eleanor cried again. She just kept crying.

“You shouldn’t cry.”

“Pardon?”

“Christmas is coming soon, is it not?”

And so, I tossed out a little joke.

“You won’t get any presents.”

Naturally, it was a joke that no one but me understood.

***

Thump.

A few boats, having navigated the dangerous sea of shoals and whirlpools, finally reached land. The men disembarked, striding through tall grass and stepping into the disgusting mire of the swamp. Every one of them had a guarded look in his eyes, his body tense.

“Everyone, move inland!”

As the last boat touched the shore and the warship they had arrived on gently made contact with the island, a fiery command rang out. The soldiers shed their last vestiges of hesitation and began to move.

“Your Excellency Governor?”

“What is it, Fernando?”

“Forgive my impertinence, sir, but according to the charts we have of this area, this small island has already been abandoned by the colonists. It would be more prudent to conduct a thorough search of the Chesapeake Bay…”

“Have we not already searched the Chesapeake Bay? All those strange rumors circulating among the savages, all those fanciful tales… I have grown weary of them. It is better to go to the place where it all began.”

“…Understood, sir.”

Vicente Gonzales[1], the governor of Spanish Florida’s Santa Elena, gave the order in a stern voice and surveyed his surroundings. Over a hundred soldiers were prowling about, searching this savage land.

Even after hearing rumors that the Roanoke colony had moved to the Chesapeake Bay, His Majesty the King had not been able to put his mind at ease. The colonial government of the West Indies was also gripped by fear of a colony that could be used as a military base and staging point for the English.

And so, it had been several months since Gonzales had been dispatched. After a tedious search of the Chesapeake Bay, they had ultimately found no trace of the colony. It was clear they had fled to escape the Spanish fleet.

In other words, the expedition was a failure.

‘I cannot return after having brought a warship all this way, having done nothing but chase the tail of the English. I must, by any means necessary, produce something to report to the colonial authorities…’

As he thought this, Vicente Gonzales unconsciously began to bite his thumbnail in agitation. If he could not achieve some result on this expedition, it was certain that those damned English pirates would once again suck the wealth of the great Spanish Empire dry like mosquitoes. It was a possibility that was infuriating just to imagine—

“Y-Your Excellency! Come this way!”

“Hmm?”

Rustle.

Deer, startled by the sound of human footsteps, fled, and birds, pecking at broken melon pieces, took to the air. The sound of their flapping wings broke the silence, and Vicente Gonzales leaped over a thicket and headed toward the soldier’s shout.

And…

“Oh… good heavens.”

They saw the traces of a settlement where over 100 people had lived. They saw the surrounding stockade, the half-collapsed, abandoned huts.

And on one of the logs was carved a single word.

-‘CROATOAN.’

Beneath it, more details were written in smaller, but still legible, letters.

-‘Settlement successful. If this is found, come to Croatoan Island.’

A thin smile stretched across Vicente’s lips.

Soon, over a hundred armed men left Roanoke Island once more. They had a new target. And they had a new mission, handed down from God himself.

The English heretics who had forsaken His Holiness the Pope were no different from beasts.

Therefore, the two-legged beasts living there would all be killed.

It was a rather clean conclusion.