Andrew was a young man who had lived in the Speyside region of Scotland. Like everyone else, his family farmed, and with the leftover grain, they distilled a bit of spirits. That was, until the King’s new taxes forced them to hide the equipment passed down from their ancestors. In the end, he was scraping by, selling off the last of his spirits as moonshine, just trying to keep his head down. It was then he saw it.
‘Proclamation: To the Land of True Faith, Freedom, and Wealth. -The Virginia Company-‘
—“Did you see it? The amount of land they’re giving? Good Lord! Over 100 acres per family!”
The dream of becoming a landowner in the New World. It came at a time when dream-like stories of men who had made fortunes in the aluminum or fur trade were drifting across the ocean. He, too, thought he could be one of them, if only he crossed the Atlantic. He believed that after just a little sweat, a little hardship, carving out his own field from the wilderness, he could become that wealthy.
His assumption was wrong.
Krrrr-rrmble!
—”Why would you farm it yourself? Leave it to us, eh? Just show up for the sowing and weeding.”
—”…”
The farmland was simply gifted to him, already cleared. The farming itself was done for him by the ‘Knightly Order.’ They didn’t even take taxes. (Here, in this strange place, they called taxes ‘gifts.’) Without suffering at all, he became wealthy.
He and his neighbors were sharp.
—“Do we really need to plant the seeds ourselves? The Order does it even if we don’t.”
—“Aye, and the ‘gift’ we’d save… ‘gift,’ right… it’s not even that much.”
The farmers, who had survived Scotland’s endlessly shifting tax schemes, quickly figured out how they should live in this new paradise.
—“Do we… even need to farm at all?”
—“Seems better to just do what we’ve always done. Take the leftover barley, make spirits, and sell it back to the homeland.”
—“And there’s no tax if we distill here? It’s not even moonshine?”
And so, they did not obsess over the dream of being landowners. In this land, the path to wealth was not, as they had always known it, in owning land. The villagers pooled their hands and built a massive distillery. Andrew worked there, too.
He had been working there today, just like any other day, when the shout went up.
—“Th-There! It’s ‘Him’! It’s ‘Him’!”
At that one phrase, he’d dropped the cask he was rolling and run all the way here.
***
The new Scottish village in the Pamlico region. Or, as the people who settled here called it, ‘Glenaingeal’ (Glen of the Angel). Well, it was better than calling a village ‘Clear Water’ (Cheongsu) just because they grew a lot of Cheongsu grapes, or ‘Barón’ because they grew Baron potatoes.
In any case, a new phosphate rock mine was scheduled to be developed near this village. Phosphate rock is, literally, a mineral containing phosphate. Rich in phosphorus, an essential component of life, it is used to make fertilizer. In an age without chemical fertilizers, you can just dig up fertilizer from the ground? You can mine agricultural productivity? This was an absurd blessing. Even if it wasn’t as rich in nitrogen as the guano piled high in Peru, this was more than enough to be thankful for.
‘And in America, this stuff is just, lying on the ground…’
I’ll say it again: the world is truly unfair. I looked at the map, and it wasn’t just in this one spot.
“Hwooo.”
Let’s stop complaining about a 21st century I can’t even return to. I am on this land, and I need to focus on the situation at hand. The phosphate in this area is mostly in sand form, mixed with fine quartz and clay. So, while the risk of spontaneous combustion might be low, we still have to approach it with caution. First,
“Let’s return to the truck. I have something to retrieve. I’ll need a few strong men to help me.”
“Yes? Ah, of course!”
The councilor picked out a few of the stronger-looking men from the crowd of onlookers. We drove the Porter over to the edge of the mine and looked around.
“First, I intend to draw water from the low-lying areas and connect it to this spot.”
“To this spot, sir?”
“Yes. The goal is to bring water here and create a well, not a lake, but a large artificial pond.”
After reviewing the fertilizer data I had at home and cross-referencing the catalog, the conclusion was clear. Due to its chemical properties, phosphate dissolves easily in water. We would need to dissolve it in water anyway to filter out the impurities. In fact, according to my research, dissolving it in water was an essential step in producing phosphoric acid from the rock, so the pond was necessary.
‘Above all, considering the fire risk… we must have water nearby.’
What is the most important resource in our Commonwealth? Aluminum? The grape varietals? The endless supply of fertilizers and daily necessities from my house? None of them. Our most important resource is our people. Preventing people from getting hurt or killed is not only the moral thing to do, it is the most practical. We will ensure that no one is injured in the development of this phosphate mine. If it becomes a place where people are frequently hurt or killed, it would be better to stop development entirely until we find another way.
“B-But, how will we maintain the pond? Drawing that much water with men or animals.”
Thunk.
“We will use this.”
“…” “…” “…”
I retrieved the pump I had loaded onto the camper and set it down in front of them. “If we use this to draw water, we can create a pond here. However, to do so, we will need someone to regularly bring coal and maintain this pump.”
“I will find the men, sir.”
“Thank you, Councilor Pastor. Please tell them the Commonwealth will compensate them fully for this work.”
“But of course! In this blessed land, who would not be rewarded for their efforts?”
As the councilor spoke, I looked around. The large crowd of onlookers was still gathered here. There had to be 500 people, and I remembered this village’s population was just over 600. That meant pretty much every Scot and Spaniard living here had come out.
I raised my hand. “In the future, we will select people from Glenaingeal to become the managers of the mine that will be established here.” The crowd began to murmur again, but this time with a different energy. “We will need miners to excavate the valuable resources from that place, and technicians to process those resources under extremely demanding and delicate conditions!”
Lately, I’d felt a change in the people of our Commonwealth. They were becoming more at leisure. I don’t just mean they were wealthier. I mean they had more time. It was, in a way, inevitable. In this era, 80 to 90 percent of the population is farmers, and their primary concern is securing their next meal. But into that equation, I had thrown 21st-century crop varieties and tractors, effectively mechanizing their agriculture. The amount of work left for people to do was steadily decreasing. They used to cultivate their own kitchen gardens on the land they were given. But these days, even that farm work was being efficiently handled by the strongholds.
‘Just look at that distillery in Glenaingeal. It paints a clear picture.’
They had nothing better to do, they were overflowing with barley, and they weren’t being taxed. The moment I gave them a little push, they all excitedly built a massive distillery. They were all just bored, weren’t they? A person can’t just do nothing.
And I had just offered to pay them. I figured 50, maybe 100 people would volunteer. Of course, that’s a laughably small workforce for excavating this entire mine. But we could always fill the remaining spots with people from Chesapeake.
“W-Will my family be able to volunteer?”
“Of course.”
See? They were bored. A volunteer, just like that.
“We will volunteer too!”
“Is it alright if we move here to live?”
“I can work hard! Just leave it to me!”
“Uh, yes?”
Suddenly, the Scots rose up like a swarm of bees, all volunteering. Was that 300? 400 people?
What.
Why are there so many?
***
‘I’ve just been killing time at the village distillery anyway… Why not go over there?’ It seemed like a better deal than just selling spirits at the distillery. No, since the Nameless One himself was promising compensation, it seemed like a much better deal. It meant this was important work for the Commonwealth, which meant the potential profits would be huge. Andrew exchanged a glance with his wife, and they both shot their hands into the air.
“You, there. You’ll be accepted. Do you work at the distillery?” And when His voice called out, Andrew was ecstatic. “Yes! I work there! I’m used to handling complex machinery and all sorts of work!” At that, a flicker of interest crossed His face. He nodded.
Like Andrew, there were many who had given up the dream of being a simple landowner to find a different path. This was especially true among the Scots. Most of them were already accustomed to factory-like work from the distillery—managing the stills, malting the barley. And most of them, sensing an opportunity, rushed to Kim Lee-sang to ask for a chance. In the end, unable to resist the wave of requests, Kim Lee-sang appointed over 300 Scots as miners and managers for the new mine.
It wasn’t a bad recruitment rate. No, it had wildly exceeded the goal. The enthusiastic volunteers immediately packed their belongings and prepared to move. Within days, tents sprang up below the mine site, and a new village, separate from Glenaingeal, was born. They elected their own councilor, who then approached Kim Lee-sang and requested that he grant their new village a name. And the ‘Nameless One’ opened his mouth.
“Then, let us call it ‘Mèinn Torrach’ (Fertile Mine).”
***
Klang! Klang! Clack-clack. Squeak… squeak…
The sounds of tightening, oiling, and hammering rose and fell in sequence, then faded. The technicians under his command moved back and forth, giving signals. The chief technician nodded to the Knight. The Knight climbed onto the well-maintained tractor and gripped the controls. The gates opened, and the tractor, a heavy, lumbering beast, moved out. The tractor sang a chorus of various roars: the sound of metal grinding on metal, of gears meshing, of steam hissing. The noise sent the nearby birds scattering in alarm. And beneath this chorus of fire and steel, a new rhythm was added, a rumbling that shook the earth as something approached the tractor.
“Sir Powell! Are you heading out now? What of the shift change with Sir Hynd?”
It was the squires, galloping on horseback, the banner of the Knightly Order flying high. The head squire, Liam Buckner, who was close to earning his own knighthood, called out. Sir Powell nodded and shouted back.
“Aye! Sir Hynd asked me to cover his duties for today. I’m in charge of clearing and sowing! Liam, Francis! You two ride ahead and ‘clear’ the designated plot!”
The moment the Knight’s order was given, Liam and Francis spurred their horses forward. All of them wore simple armor and carried weapons. It might have seemed like overkill. A Knight? He was just a farmer. They weren’t riding off to war, so why the need for weapons and armor?
Grrrrr…
“To the left! I’ll drive that wolf pack to the left, you herd them toward the pit!” “Got it! Francis? Here, take the musket!” BANG! Pa-BANG!
But the swamps of America were teeming with alligators, and the forests and fields were prowled by wolves and wild bison. Just as the lords and knights of the Middle Ages had protected their subjects by hunting not just men but also beasts, these knights expanded the farmlands by driving off the wolves and other creatures of this wild land.
BANG!
Besides, the furs they collected in the process were a tidy side-income. Of course, driving off beasts was the most dangerous part of the job, so it was entrusted to the most skilled and experienced squires.
While the two squires waited, having cleared the designated plot of all animals, the tractor, escorted by the other squires, arrived. Erik, the squire in charge of fuel, unloaded water and coal. Edward, the equipment squire, brought the various attachments over on a cart. Clack! Th-thump, th-thump!
Meanwhile, Liam led the other squires, planting flags at the corners of the plot and running ropes between them. They measured the distance and area, designating which land would belong to whom. Once the beasts were cleared, the land sectioned, and the tractor ready, the Knight, Sir Powell, finally gripped the controls and began to move.
Clunk! Th-clack!
Behind the tractor, sharp disc plows sliced through the weed roots, breaking up the clods of earth, slowly turning the rough ground soft. A steam tractor, by its very nature, is not easy to steer or to control in speed. As such, Sir Powell followed the optimal path he had mapped out in his head, tilling the field. In the lulls, Erik the fuel squire refilled the boiler with water. As soon as the plowing was done, Edward the equipment squire, having finished his checks, hooked the seeder to the back of the tractor for a new pass.
In just a short time, this one Knight and his half-dozen squires had finished sowing nearly five hectares of land. That alone was an area three or four times the size of the farm Kim Lee-sang had first transmigrated with.
And so, during the month of February 1605, they cultivated hundreds of hectares. An area hundreds of times larger than Kim Lee-sang’s original farm. Tilling the soil, sowing the seeds, plowing the weeds, and applying fertilizer and water—all of it was accomplished by the personnel of a single stronghold, including just two Knights.
The total number of people at Stronghold 17, including knights, technicians, and squires, was about twenty.
Only twenty people.