In April, a fleet escorted three hundred exiles to the eastern harbor of Sunlight Island.
The harbor was shockingly crude. Dozens of thick logs had been driven into the beach, barely supporting a crooked wooden pier. Freshly felled timber lay piled along the shore, bark still damp, axe marks clearly visible.
"A year has passed—what have they even accomplished?"
Hosa leaned over the rail, complaining about the slow pace of development.
The ship edged toward the dock. The salty sea breeze carried the scent of fish and tar. Sailors tossed ropes around the wooden posts with practiced efficiency.
Once ashore, Hosa stepped onto the rickety pier. A temporary wooden palisade enclosed the harbor area. Inside stood barely more than a hundred huts, hastily built from logs and branches.
"Where's Helgi?"
Following directions, Hosa headed north of the harbor, where a slope rose steadily upward. The hillside was dotted with stumps and low shrubs. At the summit, workers were constructing a stone fortress.
The stone—gray rock quarried inland—was being bound together with mortar mixed nearby. Scanning the site, Hosa spotted Helgi, dressed in a coarse linen shirt.
"My lord earl," Hosa called, "labor is already scarce. Why rush to build a fortress?"
Helgi set down his tools and wiped sweat from his face.
"Three months ago, a Moorish merchant ship came to trade. Since then, three more have followed. I fear a naval attack. We build the fortress first—then we'll install mangonels and torsion ballistae."
From the hilltop, Hosa looked down at the harbor. The sea shimmered blue. White gulls circled overhead, occasionally swooping down to snatch fish scraps before beating their wings skyward again.
After a moment, he shook his head.
"The Canary Islands have no precious mines. We're here to grow sugarcane and grapes. The Moors already control vast lands in North Africa and Iberia. What profit would they gain from seizing this place?"
Helgi regarded the shorter, pale Anglo man calmly.
"Hosa, you are a merchant. You judge everything by profit. True—attacking us would bring them no gain, perhaps even losses. But not everything in this world is rational. What if some nearby lord simply dislikes us and attacks out of spite? What then?"
Neither could persuade the other. They compromised: of the three hundred new exiles, one hundred would work on the fortress; two hundred would join the sugar company.
Each year, the fleet could make three round trips between Lundenwic and the Canary Islands, transporting three hundred laborers per voyage. That meant only nine hundred new workers annually—and even that number would shrink after illness and escape. Every man assigned to fortifications meant one fewer in the plantations.
Hosa had no mood for further debate. Most of his capital was invested in sugar. If the venture failed, he would spend the rest of his life back in rural Tyne.
He mounted a horse and rode inland.
North of the river, vast fields of sugarcane had been cleared. Sunlight reflected off the water so brightly it hurt the eyes. Laborers dug irrigation channels under the blazing sun.
The layout had been carefully designed. Waterwheels lifted river water into elevated reservoirs, from which it flowed downhill through branching canals into the fields. This irrigation system drew on years of agricultural knowledge from Tyneburg Academy. It ensured both watering during dry spells and drainage during heavy rain, preventing root rot.
Satisfied with the canals, Hosa proceeded to the sugar mill workshop.
Due to labor shortages, a water-powered mill had not yet been built. For now, horses turned the crushing stones. Workers fed stripped cane stalks into the press. After repeated crushing, green, murky juice flowed out.
"Where does the cane pulp go?" Hosa asked instinctively.
"Animal feed—or firewood," a weary laborer replied.
The juice was poured into large cauldrons. Lime was added. After settling, impurities sank to the bottom, and the clarified upper layer was boiled.
During boiling, foam and scum had to be constantly skimmed off. Waves of heat struck Hosa's face, nearly suffocating him. But driven by profit, he endured, determined to observe the entire process.
The thick syrup was then poured into conical clay molds. Once cooled, it formed reddish-brown sugar loaves, with dark molasses draining out below.
Hosa snapped off a piece of brown sugar and placed it in his mouth. Rich sweetness flooded his senses. He couldn't resist taking another bite.
"Excellent. Almost as good as Moorish sugar. At last, we'll make money."
So far, the sugar company had invested 2,500 pounds and earned almost nothing, aside from a few bay leaves. Only the original investors' persistence kept it afloat.
Last year, Hosa had tried attracting new capital, but most nobles feared the risk. Only the queen had invested five hundred pounds, easing financial strain and extending operations to the year's end.
His gaze fell on the leftover molasses.
"And this—how is it used?"
"Sweet bread. Or mixed into horse feed."
Molasses bread was one of the few worker perks. They couldn't afford refined sugar; molasses was their substitute.
Hosa dipped a finger into the sticky substance and tasted it. Letting it go to waste seemed foolish. Why not ship it home for sale?
The workers' mood soured at once.
"My lord," one replied with faint sarcasm, "molasses spoils easily. If not used quickly, it turns sour. Perhaps you should reconsider."
When personal profit was involved, Hosa never retreated easily.
"This year's planting area has expanded sixfold. When harvest comes, both sugar and molasses output will surge. How much can you possibly consume?"
The workers exchanged glances. Finally, someone spoke.
"As long as you don't cut off our sweet bread, the rest is your affair."
The dinner bell rang. The workers dispersed, leaving Hosa alone with two armed attendants.
He stared at the thick, dark molasses. Letting it go to waste felt unbearable.
A bold idea began to form.
Barley, apples, grapes, pears—many crops could be fermented into alcohol. Sugarcane was also a crop. By reason, it too could be made into liquor.
Skipping supper, Hosa fetched a wooden barrel, added yeast and diluted molasses.
If it worked—
There would be another fortune to be made.
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