How to Survive in the Roanoke Colony

"Walter, are you still in contact with various organizations inside?"

With that in mind, I casually requested an interim report.

"Hmm... Yes, we are."

'Hmm'?

I tilted my head at Raleigh's curious answer.

"What's the matter?"

"Oh, it's nothing special. It's just that through the organizations in Florida, I've heard some interesting rumors. Thanks to that, more people seem to be joining our organization..."

Interesting rumors...?

I listened to Raleigh's words.

"There's a strange 'legend' circulating."

==

January 1598.

The northern edge of the Florida colony.

Over the past decade or so, colonies that had been abandoned and neglected since Francis Drake's invasion were being rebuilt one by one.

Among them, mission headquarters and military bases were re-established, and plantations were built under the hands of black slaves and the whips of Spanish masters.

Spanish colonists from Spain, or other colonies like Mexico, planted tobacco, sugarcane, and cotton in this land. All were profitable export crops.

For such vast cultivated lands, labor was needed. Spanish colonists, filled with expectations of becoming lords of the New World, naturally did not engage in such rough labor.

It was the slaves, who made up more than 80% of the colony's population, who cultivated these vast fields.

They defended the colony from hundreds and thousands of attacking Native Americans.

They took charge of cultivating the cash crops of this colony.

Crash!

And they couldn't even lick the crumbs of wealth coming from this colony.

When the master swings a whip made of cowhide and strikes the ground, an eerie sound echoes. Hearing that sound, several slaves tremble and look down at the ground.

Then the master, as if finding it ridiculous, lashes the whip at a fence post standing nearby.

More precisely, at.

"Gasp... Cough... Ugh..."

"I, I can't understand your hearts full of anger."

Toward a slave tied there, bleeding and dying.

Crash!

"I've sacrificed so much for you all."

Crash!

"Didn't I read the Bible to you every day? Unlike other masters, didn't I let you sleep on proper beds instead of on straw?"

Crash!

"...But, why did you do it?"

The slave tied to the post collapsed face down, struggling even to breathe. All over his nearly naked body were reddened wounds.

"Servants, be subject to your masters with all fear; not only to the good and gentle, but also to the froward. (1 Peter 2:18)

I often read this passage to you all."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"I might be a bit difficult. You might think it's too harsh to whip a slave just for having a small gathering.

But what can I do."

As the master swings the whip, the slaves who are struck cower in fear.

"...I am your master."

There are 23 slaves gathered here. The master's family consists of only five or six people.

At a glance, it seems like the slaves could overpower them, but just a short walk away are soldiers from the Spanish colonial authorities.

There have already been many incidents where slaves killed their masters, only for those slaves to be massacred in turn. After such events repeated several times, no one even dreamed of rebellion.

Crash! Crash!

So, no one could risk themselves for a dying comrade.

His crime was organizing a "prayer meeting."

"Satan worship... Satan worship... Indeed, you infidels don't listen without physical pain."

The master's seemingly kind eyes become bloodshot. As he licks his dry lips with his tongue, his mouth glows red as if stained with blood.

"Oh, Lord! Lord! Why have you entrusted me with such a difficult task of civilization!"

"I, I, I have never done Satan worship..."

"..."

"Ju-just, I only organized a prayer meeting. Reciting a few Bible verses..."

"Then recite them."

"..."

"I said, recite those Bible verses you claim to have memorized."

"Do...don't seek a reason when one person saves another. That is the Lord's sorrow!"

At this, the master's hand hesitates.

...It's an unfamiliar verse.

Could it be something he made up?

As he's about to continue the whipping, the slave cries out again.

"You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free! (John 8:32)"

Ah, this is a familiar verse. Just as the master's mouth is about to form a satisfied curve, the bloodied slave, half out of his mind, says.

"Do not be bound in the path of seeking faith! In the Lord's eyes, denominational differences are too trivial..."

Then the master's face frowns again.

What nonsense.

Does that mean that English people, and French Huguenots, will all be saved? That's absurd...

Crack!

And during the master's moment of confusion, the bloodied slave lying down trembles and pulls out the fence post. With his two arms freed, he immediately begins to flee from the master.

Of course.

Crash!

"Ugh, cough..."

It was impossible for an already exhausted slave to escape.

"Prayer meeting. Creating strange idols... Inciting other slaves...! Now... even reciting strange verses!"

The master remembers when he encountered their so-called "prayer meeting."

It was very disgusting. They had carved something like a Native American wooden statue, and the sight of them holding it, crying, and muttering something resembled crawling insects.

"Lo-Lord! An-angel! Angel!"

"...Hmph."

Still talking nonsense without coming to his senses.

The master raised the whip again. And...

Whack!

"...Wh-what?"

"The Lord hates slave owners. His, an-angel hates slavery!"

Suddenly, someone embraces him from behind. Surprised by the stench of that body, he pushes it away and sees a strange-looking man staring at him with vacant eyes as if gazing into the void.

A man with unkempt beard and hair, wearing only rags.

"Wh-whipping slaves... is whipping the Lord... the Lord's angel... forbids it..."

"..."

"An-angel, the angel hates slavery...!"

"...Are you that madman from the rumors?"

Angry, he looks around and finds that the bloodied slave has disappeared without a trace.

Thinking that someone who was nearly dead had suddenly escaped, the slave owner, with blood rushing to his head, says.

"Do you know that the one who just escaped is a Satan worshipper? The Lord is, why are you bewitched by some devil..."

"The Lord's angel ha-hates slavery..."

"..."

The conversation was not getting through. Then, for some reason, the master feels drained and puts down the whip. The other slaves, who had been tense, tremble and return to their quarters.

"...Really? The angel hates slave owners?"

"Ye-yes... The angel exists. He, he put fear in me..."

"..."

"He-hell, fear of hell, he put in me..."

A bitter laugh escapes. Because of some strange madman, he lost a slave and his dignity in front of the slaves.

But this guy, whether beaten or whatever, seems already to have lost his mind, so it would be useless.

Feeling drained, the master laughs weakly and asks the madman.

"What's... your name?"

"Na-name... Asu...ero..."

"What? I can barely hear you."

"..."

"Well, fine. Don't speak. Then, this angel you keep crying out about..."

"...Angel!"

Cutting off the master's words, the madman opens his eyes wide.

The image of that day was still vividly replaying before the madman's eyes.

Deep in the madman's soul, the words of the 'angel' were still deeply engraved.

"You deceived your own soul."

"If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us."

"You drove the Lord out of your heart."

"Mu-must repent..."

"What?"

"Must repent... the eternal hell is still chasing me from behind...! The angel is watching me...!"

"...No, who on earth is this angel you keep crying about?"

When the slave owner persistently asks, the madman cries out in a loud voice as if expelling even his soul.

Firmly believing that name would one day make this world tremble in fear.

Believing that name would one day conquer this world.

"...Nemo!"

Nemo!

He is coming!

He is coming to this land soon!

The angel's wrath will soon descend upon this land!

The madman howled like a crazy person and ran off somewhere again.

Endlessly running, running, and shouting.

The slave owner didn't even think of chasing him.

Because as soon as he heard that name, a creeping fear began to climb up his spine.

Clearly... the name those slaves were shouting in their 'prayer meeting'...

Nemo.

And so the rumor spreads again.

A rumor about a madman wandering somewhere between northern Florida and the savage land beyond.

He wandered endlessly, trembling with fear.

He shouted the arrival of the angel until his throat was raw.

'He will come someday.'

'He will strike this land like lightning.'

'His words will deafen people's ears.'

'His appearance will blind people's eyes.'

So he shouted.

He could be called, so to speak...

'The Wandering Spaniard'.