The Brave New World - 174 Bernard Bleeds Again

He’d kept back something when he told his father about his unpleasant misadventure. He didn’t mention he’d acquired a very strong, very deep desire to rip the guts out of every Mexican he came across, in either world. He felt it again as he lay back on his hiber bed.

When he arrived in Fort Lander, he found himself frowning at a wayward chicken running down the street in front of the house that served as his residence. The chicken was chased by one of the Mexican colonists, and Bernard realized that a bit of planning was required before he could indulge in his murderous desires. The Mexican colonists were very useful – they took care of the fucking chickens, among other things – a final solution to the Mexican problem required careful planning, and plenty of foresight.

Bernard stood on the front porch of his residence and watched the Mexican capture the chicken with a diving lunge at its legs. The chicken’s bid for freedom was ended; it beat its wings madly while hanging head down in its captor’s grasp. It was utterly helpless, and Bernard smiled an evil smile. He had begun to dislike chickens lately.

He was able to tell that the chicken struggling in the laborer’s grasp was a cock. A male chicken had a very short life expectancy. It was used to impregnate as many hens as possible while it grew to biggest possible size. Then it was slaughtered for meat, while its numerous lovers went on contentedly laying eggs, and getting laid by a succession of fresh males. It was nice to be a hen.

While Bernard was watching the chicken, his brain was busy absorbing all the new New World data: an update on what had happened since his last visit. When the last update on the list popped into his conscience, he grimaced and set out for the ship dock.

The road to the harbor on the river led between two rows of buildings, mostly wooden cabins inhabited by colonists. The wood was already turning grey because of the weather. Here and there, children were playing in front of the sagging front porches of the houses. Bernard encouraged colonists to bring along their children. Yes, they were a burden to begin with. But they’d grow up ten times faster in the New World, and make much better citizens than their parents. They’d know what was what by the time they grew up. They’d be obedient.

It was a ship that clearly wasn’t ready to sail anywhere. Its smaller, rear mast was tilted at a crazy angle; the rigging hadn’t been completed. Two men were working on the ship’s steer, suspended on a platform – a plank with two ropes: they appeared to be fastening the steer blade mount with big wooden hammers. Thuck-thuck went the hammers, in rhythm with Bernard’s steps, as he descended down the partly cobbled path towards the pier.

The foreman had seen him approach, and he jumped off the side of the ship almost the moment Bernard stopped. He half-walked, half-ran up to Bernard, meeting him at the beginning of the pier, and said:

“Good morning, sir.”

Bernard inspected the man before him from top to bottom in a single sweeping gaze. The boots and leather pants were okay, but one of the wooden buttons on the thick leather vest was cracked. Another was hanging by a thread. Bernard said:

“Mend those buttons the moment you finish this shift. What’s going on?”

“Everything according to plan,” the foreman said. “We’re slightly ahead in some areas. But the rigging – the rope-makers are late. I have to ask you to have a word with them. They’re already a couple of weeks behind. And we still don’t have a single anchor.”

“I thought the first anchor was delivered a couple of days ago!”

“It cracked when we tested it. The blacksmith’s working on a new one. It should be ready the day after tomorrow.”

“We need two anchors by the end of the week,” Bernard said.

“I know. So does the blacksmith. But there’s only so much that he can do.”

“He’ll have to work harder,” said Bernard. A gust of wind hit his face, bringing the stench of the leaves rotting along the shoreline of the river. Baring his teeth with disgust, he said:

“And so will you. I want this ship ready for tests no more than a week from now. Seven days. I’ll make sure you get everything you need. Do you need extra men?”

“A couple of hands would be good, sir,” said the foreman. He was stiff with apprehension. His intuition was correct. Bernard said:

“I’m firing you if you don’t deliver. You’re out of here. You can go and stand in the lineup with the other losers applying for handouts if you fail me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said the foreman, silently hating Bernard. The fucking pipsqueak! He wasn’t even eighteen! Who the fuck did he think he was?

“I’m going to talk to the rope guys right away,” said Bernard. “Get your ass in gear. Move!”

“Yes, sir,” said the foreman, and scurried towards his coworkers like a frightened cockroach. Bernard moved too, walking fast to the rope maker’s workshop. It was located at the other end of Fort Lander, and he was beginning to sweat by the time he got there.

What he found at the rope maker’s workshop instantly made him hot with anger. The rope maker was leaning against the back doorway and talking to a grinning Mexican chica, while his two young assistants were clumsily undoing the plaits of a short thick rope, each of them working at one end.

“What the hell is that?!” Bernard shouted. He had a mind to give the Mexican girl a clip on the ear, and the rope maker a kick in the ass. The girl’s hand flew to her mouth when she saw Bernard, and she ran away; the rope maker turned round, and snapped to attention.

“Good day, sir,” he said.

“It’s not going to be good for you,” snarled Bernard. “I’ve just talked to the shipbuilder. You’re two weeks behind schedule and you stand around scratching your ass!”

“We’ve run out of yarn,” the rope maker said quickly. “We’re having to take apart bits and pieces left over from the ropes we’ve already made. Even then, we won’t have enough yarn until the latest batch of fiber is converted into slivers. It’s in the process of being impregnated with oil, it’s going to take another day. It takes time for the fiber to absorb the oil.”

“You should have planned ahead for that,” said Bernard.

“I did! The oil presser was late. Over a week late! Please, sir. Could you have a talk with him?”

“I will. Right now though, I’m talking to you, so listen carefully. If you don’t deliver all the rope needed for the ship’s rigging by the end of the week, I’m replacing you and kicking you out of the colony.”

The rope maker turned pale. The colonists inhabiting Fort Lander were allowed to send home ten kilos of food every month, including two kilos of meat and two of fish. It was a very valuable perk.

“We’ll work day and night, sir,” he said.

“You better,” Bernard said grimly. He directed his next steps to the oil press.

He found no one there. A glance inside the shed standing next to the press told him why. The shed was used to store seeds from which oil was pressed, and it was completely empty: not a single sack or basket of seeds! Bernard guessed the oil press crew was out looking for acorns. Acorns could be pressed for oil, and they were plentiful at this time of the year.

His mouth set in a grim line, Bernard set out for the fishermen’s shacks located near the bank of the river. Halfway there, he changed his mind and stopped, drawing curious glances from a couple of passing colonists.

He’d intended to requisition all the fish oil stored in the fish smokehouse. But he knew that this intervention would inevitably disturb another supply chain, cause new troubles somewhere along the line. Governing the Lander colony was like dealing with a mess of tangled lines; pulling on any of them invariably involved pulling on some of the others. He was sick of it!

It had been great at the beginning. He got a kick from issuing orders to men twice his age. But the novelty had worn off a while ago. Governing was like a tiresome slog through a swamp, where every misstep could have serious consequences.

It was time to appoint a deputy to deal with all that shit. Nominally, Debbie was the colony’s lieutenant-governor. She took care of all the food business: fishing, hunting, gathering, agriculture. She was really good: no one went hungry in the Lander colony, and there was a regular food surplus.

Bernard took it upon himself to manage manufacturing and construction work in the colony. He’d always greatly enjoyed strategy games where correct management of the economy was crucial to victory. But in a game, everyone did what they were ordered to do. Things didn’t work like that in life, in either of the two worlds.

Hank Vorner! He would appoint Vorner as his second deputy. Hank was a great guy, and very knowledgeable about pretty much everything that concerned the practicalities of life. And Bernard had a good excuse for appointing a second deputy, too. He intended to lead the expedition to King’s Island aboard the new caravel. He wouldn’t be around to manage things.

It was too early for Hank to be at home. He had gone to fetch pig iron from the colony’s out-of-town operation. The colony’s only source of iron ore delivered ore of such low quality that it was impractical to transport it to Fort Lander. It was smelted into pig iron onsite, with ingots collected once a week. And this was that day of the week.

He’d talk to Hank in the evening. And in the meantime, he’d visit the alehouse to test the quality of the latest batch of beer. It could vary wildly, together with the material used for brewing: it would be another couple of years before the barley crop covered both the brewers’ and the bakers’ needs. Beer quality had huge impact on the colony morale. It was clearly Bernard’s duty as governor to ensure certain standards were kept.

Bernard resumed walking, the frown disappearing from his face. He’d test the beer, and then he would go around and give a few people shit, just so that they remembered who was the boss.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said a passing colonist, carrying a bundle of firewood on his back. Bernard smiled at him, and raised a hand in acknowledgement.

“Good afternoon,” he said, and walked on with a lighter step.

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