Chapter 177

News of the trade treaty rippled through the Dutch East India Company with the speed of a rising tide. While the rank-and-file employees rejoiced at the prospect of a powerful new trade partner, the suddenness of the arrangement left many of the higher-ups scratching their heads in bewilderment.

“’Exercise maximum restraint regarding the massacre and enslavement of local savages, and implement humanitarian policies’… What kind of bullshit is this?”

The reaction was particularly explosive in the gleaming, newly furnished offices of Batavia. Jan Pieterszoon Coen, the Governor-General of the Dutch East Indies, stared at the dispatch with a furrowed brow. He rose from his mahogany desk, dropping the letter as if it were contaminated.

“It appears to be a direct result of the contract signed with the Emperor of the New World,” his secretary explained. “Word is the Emperor harbors a profound loathing for slavery and demanded these conditions as a prerequisite for trade.”

“Hah! I know well enough of this ‘magnificent Christian monarch,’” Coen scoffed. “Everyone knows he’s the one who filled the Englishmen’s heads with this hypocritical nonsense about anti-slavery.”

Coen paced the room, his frustration mounting. It made no sense. The Dutch East India Company was a young, vigorous enterprise with its best days ahead of it. There was a mountain of work to be done—how could they operate under such stifling constraints? They had only recently seized Batavia from the Sultanate of Banten. Moreover, the natives of the Banda Islands were currently in open ‘rebellion,’ refusing to grant the Dutch a monopoly on nutmeg and mace.

If they didn’t conquer them utterly and teach them a lesson in blood, how were they supposed to maintain order?

“Hmm… well, fine,” Coen muttered.

“Do you intend to comply with the order, Excellency?”

“Why not? It takes months for news to travel between the mainland and here. It’s only natural that a return dispatch might be… ‘delayed’ by a few weeks.” Coen smirked and whispered to his secretary, “We’ll bury it for now.”

The directors in the Netherlands surely understood the vital importance of monopolizing the nutmeg market. Even if trade with this ‘Continental Covenant’ promised vast riches, this was a matter of discipline. The very idea of savages daring to defy the might of the Netherlands was an affront that could not go unpunished. Coen prepared to report to the board that he would proceed with the planned expedition.

However, only a few weeks later, the situation shifted.

“They—they’ve arrived!”

“Who has?” Coen asked, looking up from his ledgers.

“The ships of the Continental Covenant!”

Coen’s secretary delivered the news with a look of genuine shock. The vessels of their new trade partner were already dropping anchor in the East Indies. Coen hurried to the docks and found himself staring at a fleet of “Clippers.” They sat in the harbor of Batavia like floating fortresses, their towering masts and sleek hulls possessing a presence that was as intimidating as it was majestic.

A group of Americans and Englishmen had already disembarked and were conferring among themselves. As Coen approached, their leader—a man whose rounded jaw and broad nose suggested a mixed Anglo-American heritage—signaled for silence and turned to face the Governor-General. Despite his unconventional appearance, he greeted Coen with the polished etiquette of a European courtier.

“Greetings, Your Excellency,” the man said, bowing deeply. “We have come under the command of our Great Chief and Emperor to trade the rare treasures of the New World.”

“You are welcome here,” Coen replied, masking his unease with a practiced smile. “I offer my respect to our comrades who stand with us against the wicked who seek to place the Roman Pope above the throne of the Lord. Per our treaty, we shall provide everything you require.”

“Our thanks.”

An ominous silence stretched between them. Coen shifted uncomfortably, his toes curling inside his boots, until the biracial man spoke again, his words cutting through the air like a bared blade.

“If I may, I have one question. It is not a matter of the treaty, but one of personal curiosity.” The man’s sharp gaze drifted toward the warships anchored nearby. “Are those vessels prepared for our ‘common enemies’?”

Damn it.

Coen struggled to keep his expression neutral as he nodded. “Indeed. The Portuguese and Spanish commit outrages across these waters. We intend to purge those wicked heretics and the savages who have allied with them…”

“They are not savages,” the man interrupted coolly. “They are indigenous people.”

“…”

“My apologies,” the man added with a thin smile. “Please, continue.”

Coen swallowed a sigh and forced a nod. “…Quite so. The ‘indigenous’ people.”

The conversation died there. The Covenant representatives spoke with the stern authority of overseers, as if they already suspected Coen’s true intentions. Knowing that this alliance had been personally brokered by the Stadtholder of the Republic, Coen found his resolve crumbling. He couldn’t risk breaking a pact of such magnitude.

The conclusion was swift. A few days later, the expedition to the Banda Islands was officially canceled. The plan was revised to offer a price increase to the islanders in exchange for maintaining the nutmeg monopoly. It was a bitter pill for Coen to swallow, but he had no choice.

In return, the Continental Covenant ships—contrary to their original plan of pushing directly into East Asia—sold their goods to the VOC at a significantly discounted rate. It was a calculated move to offset the “losses” the Dutch had incurred by sparing the islands.

When the dust settled, Coen returned to his office and opened his ledgers. His eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

“Governor! The profits are astronomical!” his secretary cried. “Do you see how much these Covenant merchants have purchased from our local holdings?”

“Oh… oh my God.”

Coen flipped through page after page, his disbelief turning into sheer exhilaration. The profit brought in by the Continental Covenant far exceeded the losses from the canceled massacre. Moreover, the goods the Covenant provided were a gold mine; Chinese smugglers were already paying exorbitant premiums for New World cotton and crafts. By siphoning off a portion of these goods for the European market, the potential for wealth was staggering.

Coen rubbed his palms together, a soft, satisfied smile playing on his lips. The Dutch East India Company was officially ready to accommodate its demanding new neighbor. The massacre and enslavement in the Banda Islands were averted; thousands of lives that would have been snuffed out were spared, even if it cost the Dutch their absolute monopoly. For a time, the Dutch merchants treated the men from the Covenant like royalty.

Flush with their own unexpected success, the Covenant merchants extended their stay in the East Indies. As the bond between the two nations began to solidify, Coen made a proposal.

“Why not join us on our voyage to Japan? One of the greatest sources of profit in Asia is the intermediary trade within the region itself.”

“Very well,” the Covenant leader agreed. “Our ships shall follow.”

And so, they sailed for the land of the short-statured warriors who shunned the meat of beasts. But when they arrived…

“Ships from the Continental Covenant? They’re already here!” a local official reported. “They even had a bit of a scrap with the Spaniards!”

“What? What are you talking about?” Coen stammered.

“Look over there!”

At the docks, a familiar sight met their eyes.

“Gather round! Our gold is cheap, and you won’t find a better deal! Trade your goods for the Emperor’s gold!”

“Look at those shameless imposters!” the Covenant representative from Batavia hissed. “Excellency, how should we respond to—”

He stopped mid-sentence.

“Why… why is everyone stopping?” Coen asked, looking between the two groups.

They had discovered another branch of the Continental Covenant. The merchants from the East and the merchants from the West—one group having crossed the Atlantic and Indian Oceans, the other having crossed the Pacific—had circled the globe only to meet in Japan.

As Coen looked on in confusion, both groups of Covenant merchants were struck by the exact same thought: What the hell are you doing here?

***

“Hahaha! It was worth the journey! Look at this Chinese silk!”

“And this gleaming porcelain dish? What a treasure!”

From my distant vantage point, I could tell the “treasure” they were admiring was actually a chamber pot, but I kept my mouth shut. The settlers were passing by, laughing and boasting of their finds. I let out a long sigh of relief.

Now that we had finally begun sending out merchant ships, even on a small scale, the faces of the settlers here had begun to brighten. They were starting to believe that a better life was finally within reach. Honestly, it probably would have been easier on everyone’s hearts and minds if they’d just stayed in Virginia or Florida.

Alas.

The allure of gold was truly a terrifying thing. It had empowered us to seize both coasts of North America simultaneously. Most of the ships we had captured were smugglers, meaning Nueva España likely didn’t even realize they were missing. For the time being, our western colony was safe. I had placed reliable people in charge of the vineyards and left behind every scrap of viticultural knowledge I possessed. My work here was done.

“The carriage is ready, my Lord. I’ll take you to where the Porter is parked.”

“No need,” I replied. “It’s not far. I’ll walk.”

It was time to return to Croatoan. The journey back was far faster and safer than the fumbling trek out had been. It took very little time for me to drive the Porter from California back to Wisconsin.

“Lord Nemo, what should we do with the Porter? The current ships can’t possibly carry it back…”

“Just push it into the water,” I said. “It’ll find its own way back.”

Splash.

From there, I transferred back to a ship. The journey was over. I ignored the welcoming parties and ran straight for my house. Ahhh. No matter how many coffee pots and comfortable beds I’d brought with me, nothing beat my own home.

“My bed…”

I buried my face in my pillow, savoring the softness. I spent a few days lounging about, watching Netflix—somehow it still worked despite the lack of internet—until a knock at the door interrupted my peace.

“We have a report on the situation in Europe, my Lord!”

Duty called. I rolled out of bed and headed to the office I’d built on the edge of the farm. I poured some coffee for the aide who had traveled up from the Chesapeake and listened intently as he began his briefing.

“It seems a succession crisis is brewing in the Holy Roman Empire. Emperor Matthias is aging, and Archduke Ferdinand of Inner Austria…”

Ferdinand of Inner Austria. The future Ferdinand II. The Emperor who would lead the Empire through the Thirty Years’ War.

Come to think of it, the Thirty Years’ War should have started by now.

A bloody religious conflict had begun, but it was in England—a nation that hadn’t even participated in the original war. I wasn’t the protagonist of some web novel who could just laugh off the butterfly effect. I didn’t get to boast about how I’d stolen the hero’s lines or comforted the male lead’s tragic past. When you meddle on this scale, history changes. That was a lesson I had learned the hard way.

“Furthermore, in England, the rebel forces led by Guy Fawkes…”

But I wasn’t the kind of obtuse protagonist who could just ignore the signs of a looming storm. I had read the history books and the catalogs. I knew that even before the Thirty Years’ War, the tension between the Protestant and Catholic factions in the Holy Roman Empire had been a coiled spring. The neighboring nations were all watching with bated breath. The war hadn’t just happened; it was a series of bombs that had been triggered one by one.

My arrival hadn’t solved those underlying tensions. Something was going to explode. If we were lucky, the impact would be small—a minor squabble between lords that historians might dismiss as a footnote.

But what if we weren’t lucky? What if the entire powder keg of Europe ignited?

“My Lord? Are you alright? You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” I replied.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and saw that my expression had hardened into a grim mask. I tapped the edge of my coffee cup nervously and shook my head. My thoughts were spiraling in a dark direction, and I couldn’t shake the sense of dread.

“Let’s end the report here for today.”

“As you wish, my Lord. Please let me know if you require anything further.”

After the aide left, I went back to my bed, but sleep wouldn’t come. I kept replaying the report in my head. What if war breaks out? That was the fear gnawing at me. I superimposed the report on my knowledge of European history, and a picture began to form.

The British Isles were already in chaos; they couldn’t even manage their own affairs. France was likely watching the Empire with razor-sharp focus; they had to, for their own survival. And the Netherlands? They were a tiny nation squeezed between giants. They wouldn’t be able to stay on the sidelines for long.

While our allies were distracted… what would our enemies do?

Spain and Portugal would be in chaos as well, but they were ruled by the Habsburgs—the same family that sat on the Imperial throne. They wouldn’t be able to avoid the conflict. But that didn’t mean the Spanish Empire would grind to a halt.

Philip III is going to die soon.

When our shield—the incompetent Philip III—died, he would be succeeded by the relatively capable Philip IV. That alone would unlock the dormant power of the Spanish Empire. And if that happened…

Could we win a war against the entire Spanish Empire?

I wasn’t just thinking about the Viceroyalty of Nueva España anymore. I was thinking of Spain, Portugal, Belgium, Naples, Milan, Sicily, Mexico, Peru, Brazil, the Philippines, and their holdings in India. They ruled one-seventh of the planet.

Their military might on the frontiers might be lackluster, but they possessed the greatest wealth in the Christian world. A constant stream of gold and silver would arm their legions. And us? We were wealthy, but outside of Virginia, we were still fragile.

And their population… ten million in the Americas alone, perhaps more. Even if most were oppressed indigenous peoples or mestizos, they were still a threat. Moreover, just as they had done in Florida, the Spanish in this timeline had been encouraging emigration far more aggressively than in my own. There were likely hundreds of thousands of Spaniards in the New World now.

And our population? We were barely a fifth of that. And those we could actually mobilize? Even fewer.

If it came to a total war… not just against Nueva España, but against a Spain that was actively and aggressively intervening… we couldn’t guarantee victory.

I sat up, my body slick with cold sweat. A few minutes later, the old grandfather clock on the wall chimed twelve times, and the bed I had soaked with sweat was suddenly made and pristine once more. It was midnight. Realizing sleep was a lost cause, I shuffled into the kitchen to make some cocoa.

I felt a strange duality of emotion. On one hand, I was terrified. Thirty years of labor, and the community still wasn’t safe. But on the other hand…

I felt a bizarre, surging thrill. We could do it.

Victory wasn’t guaranteed, but neither was defeat certain. For the first time, I could see the path to triumph. I gripped my mug until my knuckles turned white, the heat from the cocoa fueling the fire in my veins.

***

“England is successfully purging the Catholic traitors from within its borders.”

The news was a shot in the arm for the Protestant monarchs of the Empire.

“Spain and the Papacy haven’t uttered a word of protest.”

“How could they? The King has the pretext of an attempted assassination. If they intervene now, they’ll only give the radicals in their own countries an excuse to rise.”

The monarchs drew a powerful lesson from the English example. Pretext. The pretext of defending the divine right of the crown and the altar had allowed the King of England to slaughter Catholics with impunity.

If they had the right pretext, they could drive out the Catholics. They could seize the lands and wealth of the Church and scrub the influence of Rome from their territories forever. Those who followed the teachings of Luther, Calvin, and Hus etched this lesson into their minds and began to move in the shadows.

“Good God, the claws of the devil have finally reached England.”

“Look at how they’ve broken Ireland! How can we simply stand by and watch?”

Conversely, the Catholic lords felt the dark shift in the air. They crossed themselves and tightened their alliances, while the ambitious among them began to weave their own webs of shadow. Everyone knew something was coming.

No one knew exactly what it was.