Deafeat, debts, and Curiosity.
The air in the Council chamber, normally thick with the scent of beeswax and stale parchment, felt particularly heavy to João de Carrasca.
He listened, impassive, as the arguments against his Council of Eastern Trade proposal slowly solidified into a wall of caution and tradition. The Queen Regent, ever prudent, allowed her advisors to pick apart the audacity of it, the unprecedented international capital, the perceived dilution of Portuguese sovereignty, the inherent risks.
He heard the cautious murmurs about "entangling alliances," the worried questions about "foreign influence," the solemn pronouncements on "maintaining the purity of the Crown's ventures."
He saw their furrowed brows, their nervous glances at each other, their inability to grasp the sheer scale of the opportunity he presented. They spoke of history, of precedent, of what was known and safe.
And as he listened, a chilling, profound realization began to settle in his gut, colder and sharper than any blade. It wasn't just that they didn't understand the reach of his proposition . It was that they couldn't act on it. T
heir power, for all its pomp and ancient lineage, felt strangely fragile, bound by invisible chains of bureaucracy, fear, and a narrowness of minds.
He thought of the rivers of diamonds and rubber flowing into Lisbon, almost overwhelming the coffers.
He thought of the 'Mice Loom', quietly spinning wealth and revolutionizing industry. He remembered the 29 ships he commanded, the 7,000 men under his direct command, the 40 Dutch ennemy vessels at Colombo now being repaired and integrated.
He remembered the year-long campaign in Ceylon, the destruction of the Dutch fleet, the strategic advantage of the "riddle net" tactics the 2,000 men he had teaching the Kandyans to fight like Europeans – an act of nation-building by proxy.
He recalled the swift, brutal efficiency with which they had broken the Dutch stranglehold, not for the Crown to directly occupy, but for Portugal to indirectly control.
And then he looked at the Council: men of immense lineage and formal authority, yet paralyzed by caution, unable to leverage the very power he had delivered to their doorstep.
Their concerns felt small, their arguments timid, their vision limited to the familiar.
It hit him with the force of a broadside: "We are more 'potent' than the Crown."
It wasn't a thought of disloyalty.
It was a cold, hard, undeniable fact.
His team, Horizon Brazil, commanded more effective capital, more decisive military force, more strategic foresight, and more operational flexibility than the entire Council of Regency combined.
Their power was inherent, proven, and dynamic; the Crown's power, while legitimate, felt increasingly constrained, reactive, and perhaps, in comparison, almost... static.
A flicker of something dangerous ignited within him.
He was a loyal subject, a patriot. But if the Crown could not or would not wield the power he brought, if they refused to seize the opportunities that would truly secure Portugal's future, then what was therewith their" work for attitude ?
To obey a cautious hand that lead to stagnation ? or to act with the potency he possessed to ensure his dream, even if it meant navigating the blurry lines of authority with ever-increasing audacity? The rejection of the CET was not just a diplomatic setback; it was a profound personal confirmation that "work with" philosophy is a better way about a prosper future.
But thisvery " Work for" attitude, many others in the kingdom were already quietly beginning to question themselves, for reasons yet to fully unfold.
________
A Heresy in Naval Combat, From a French Perspective
Excerpts from observations by a French Naval Attaché, likely reported to Minister Colbert, 1662
"It is a bewildering spectacle, Monsieur le Ministre. What we have observed of this Dom João de Carrasca, and more specifically from Dom Diogo da Veiga, this... adventurer from Brazil, defies all established principles of naval engagement.
His victory in Ceylon was no mere fluke of wind or fortune; it was orchestrated with a savage, almost barbaric, innovation that we must now contend with.
The Perversion of the Line (The Liners as 'Port-Side Boats'):
"Our grand ships of the line, our vaisseaux de ligne, are built for the majesty of the broadside.
They are floating fortresses designed to deliver devastating cannon fire from an ordered formation, to shatter hulls and dismast rigging from a distance.
But João de Carrasca treats them as mere platforms – as if they were nothing more than floating docks, or indeed, what he calls ' Siege's boats.'
"They approach the enemy, not always in a rigid line, but with a terrifying directness.
Their role, it seems, is not primarily to decimate the foe with a continuous cannonade, but to simply get close.
They close the distance with audacious speed, engaging with their heaviest guns only to suppress the enemy's ability to respond effectively in the immediate vicinity of their intended targets.
Their very bulk becomes a shield, or a formidable obstacle, against which our own, more 'civilized' broadsides might break.
They are used as immense anchors, stable points of reference from which the true assault is launched."
"This is where the true heresy lies.
Our frigates, Monsieur, are the eyes of the fleet, the scouts, the chasers of stragglers.
They are fast, agile, lightly armed – certainly not intended for the direct assault of an enemy ship of the line.
Yet, João de Carrasca turns them into pack-hunting wolves, into specialized 'boarding boats.'
"These frigates, far from providing diversionary fire, are the diversion.
They use their speed and maneuverability to dart in, often multiple frigates against a single large vessel.
They swarm, they cut off escape, they position themselves with terrifying precision along the enemy's least defended flanks.
Their cannons, while smaller, are used for close-range, punishing fire – not to sink the vessel, but to sweep the decks clean of defenders with chain-shot, grape-shot, and even specialized projectiles to damage rigging and create chaos.
"The very moment the frigates come alongside, their crews, fanatically trained, pour over the enemy's rails with a ferocity we have not seen since the Barbary corsairs.
There is no waiting for the enemy to be dismasted or crippled by cannon fire; the cannon fire is merely to facilitate the immediate, overwhelming surge of armed men.
These frigates, therefore, are not merely transport; they are the spearhead of a coordinated, brutal, and utterly direct assault."
The Absence of "Diversionary Cannonades":
"This is the most unsettling aspect.
Where we would rely on a sustained cannonade to force an enemy to abandon a position or to soften them for a later boarding, João's method is almost silent in its initial approach, compared to the thunder of a full broadside.
The frigates' speed and the liners' sudden proximity are the psychological weapon.
There is less prolonged exchange of fire and a more sudden, terrifying rush.
"The 'diversion' is not sustained cannon fire across a wide front, but rather:
Targeted Suppression: The liners might focus their fire on the enemy's gun decks or specific command sections, silencing key points to allow the frigates to close unmolested.
Sheer Speed and Shock: The speed of the frigate assault, the sudden appearance of overwhelming numbers of boarders, creates immediate panic and disruption that cannon fire alone often cannot achieve.
Anti-Personnel Focus: Less emphasis on hull damage, more on rapidly eliminating the enemy crew's ability to resist the boarding.
Yourhumbleconsilors,advice:
" Initially, we dismissed this as the crude ferocity of pirates, or the desperate gamble of a maverick who disdains proper order.
But the results, Monsieur, are undeniable.
His methods conserve ammunition, focus the engagement, and lead to swift, brutal victories.
It is... barbare, yes, but undeniably effective.
"We must study this.
We must find a counter.
Perhaps improved anti-boarding tactics, specialized netting, more powerful anti-personnel shot for our own frigates.
Or perhaps, and this is a chilling thought, we must learn to fight with a similar, calculated savagery.
For if we cling solely to the elegant dance of the line of battle, this 'furie portugaise' may shatter not just the Dutch, but any fleet that stands against it."
After Jean Baptiste Colbert read that letter, he fell in deep thought.
_______
27 July 1662
The atmosphere in the grand hall of the Paço da Ribeira was electric.
The Flemish tapestries seemed to shimmer under the raw afternoon light, and the air buzzed with the excited murmur of the assembled court. The kingdom's grandees, ecclesiastical dignitaries in dark robes, captains returned from the Indies, and Lisbon's influential figures thronged together, all witnessing an unprecedented event.
A few days prior, the city had vibrated with the return of João de Carrasca, welcomed like a demigod.
Today, it was the turn of his peers to be recognized.
The Queen Regent, Luísa de Gusmão, sat on her throne, her impassive face barely betraying the complexity of the political calculations that had preceded this day.
Beside her, the members of the Regency Council wore a forced solemnity. They had refused the daring project of the CET, but they could not ignore the reality of the treasures returned from the ends of the earth and the broken Dutch power.
Unable to punish these men for their private audacity, the Court would now cover them with royal glory.
A respectful silence fell as the calling began. One by one, the eleven men from the Algarve stepped forward.
Their faces, marked by the Atlantic sun and the winds of the Indies, contrasted sharply with the pallor of the courtiers.
They were dressed with the dignity due to their rank, yet their eyes still held the glint of distant horizons and fierce battles.
Behind them, slightly set back but visible to all, stood João de Carrasca, newly proclaimed Marquês, observing the scene with an expression difficult to decipher – a hint of pride, no doubt, but also that distant melancholy of one who has measured the gap between his own philosophy and the prudence of established power.
The heralds, in resonant voices, enumerated the services rendered: the annihilated Dutch convoys, the broken siege of Cochin, the cunning of the "drifting nets," the fall of Ceylon's fortresses, the coordination with Kandy... each exploit was highlighted, framed as a victory for Portugal, for the Crown.
For several of them, those who had led the charge onto enemy decks, who had faced grapeshot and cannon fire, the Queen Regent pronounced the solemn words of their elevation.
Sealed parchment scrolls were presented, proclaiming their new dignity as Visconde (Viscount). New coats of arms, symbolizing their courage and contributions – an anchor for one, a cinnamon branch for another, a guiding star for fleets – would be added to their escutcheons, elevating them above their former rank of Fidalgo, making them the founders of new titled lineages.
For others, impeccably calligraphed diplomas confirmed the granting of lucrative Commanderies (Comendas) within the Order of Christ or Santiago, assuring them considerable income and an honorary position within these venerable institutions.
Those who had maintained the flow of diamonds and rubber, who had managed the rear bases in the Algarve and Brazil with formidable efficiency, also received their just share.
Their contributions were hailed as essential, the backbone of the enterprise.
Royal land grants and substantial annuities were added to their already considerable fortunes, binding them even more closely to the Crown through favors whose source remained royal.
Each time a name was called, a murmur of approval swept through the hall.
The peers of the Algarve, these men often perceived as bold and somewhat rough, were now recognized as part of the new nobility, enriched and renewed by the fortune of the Americas and the victories in Asia.
They bowed deeply before the Queen, their pride palpable. They understood, like João, the nature of this reward: a public honor that acknowledged their power while attempting to channel it, integrate it, and claim it as the Crown's own.
The ceremony was a masterpiece of royal diplomacy.
It celebrated an immense victory, anchored new powers within the established order, and left the Crown, at least in appearance, master of its destiny.
But for astute observers, and especially for the men of the Algarve and their Marquês, it was clear that while the titles were conferred by the Queen, the power that had earned them came from elsewhere.
______
August 1662
The Lisbon sun, that day, seemed brighter than ever, yet the air on the docks was heavy with anticipation mixed with a lingering uncertainty.
It had been weeks since Horizon Brazil's ships had returned from their latest expedition, weeks since the sailors, though victorious and filled with tales of treasure and jungles, had yet to receive their due.
Rumor, that serpent of the ports, had whispered of delays, complications, and doubt gnawed at some of the younger men.
But João de Carrasca was not a man to break a promise.
Horizon Brazil's grand flag finally flew above the paymaster's office, set up under a sturdy tent near the main warehouse.
A long line already stretched out, a sea of faces tanned by salt and wind, eyes shining with hope.
When the first name was called, a murmur rippled through the crowd. The men stepped forward one by one.
Each first received his base pay, those 12 Cruzados annually – converted in their minds to approximately 34.5 Livres Tournois.
It was a modest sum, yet solid.
Enough to pay a year's rent for a family, or buy a few months' food without hunger.
It was the promise of security for their wives and children back home, a striking contrast to the 25 Livres Tournois a lucky laborer might earn in an entire year, or the often-amputated and uncertain wages of royal armies.
Then came the moment everyone awaited, the one that made João de Carrasca a legendary figure.
The announcement of the loot share.
A respectful silence fell as the clerk, in a loud voice, spoke the number: "Five hundred Cruzados per man!"
An explosion of shouts, whistles, and laughter erupted.
Five hundred Cruzados! It was an unimaginable fortune for most of them, over 1,400 Livres Tournois.
Enough to buy a small farm, open a shop, pay off a family's debts for generations, or even retire to live out their days free from want.
The men moved away from the counter, eyes gleaming, clutching their leather purses like the most precious of treasures.
One sailor dreamt of a new boat, another of a stone house for his old mother, a third of a dowry for his sister or an annuity to never again have to weigh anchor.
Many were the brothers, the cousins, who had never returned from the Indies for the VOC, cut down by scurvy or dysentery, their nominal wages (though higher on paper at 147 Livres Tournois per year) being but a vain promise for their distant watery graves.
But they, João's men, had eaten fresh citrus, transported in casks sealed with that famous "rubber" that protected them from the ravages of sea sickness.
They had returned, their lungs full of salty air, their bodies whole, and their pockets bulging.
They had risked their lives, yes, but they were alive. And rich.
A murmur of devotion, almost a prayer, rose towards the man who had made this possible. João de Carrasca, their captain. He was not like the others. He paid, and he protected.
And in return, he had their unwavering loyalty, a loyalty no other company could ever buy, for it was forged in survival and the fulfilled promise of a new life.
Whatever, after the part of the crown, the salaries and loot portions promised.
There only stays around 3.5 million cruzados for horizon brazil of that expedition, all added, the common pot of the captains, reach the little result of 5 millions.
At the beginning they had some difficulties to apprehend the concept of so much money, but dreams are dreams....
_____________
The heavy leather curtain masking the entrance to Mestre Domingo's forge was pushed aside, letting in a dusty beam of light and the imposing silhouette of a man. Inside, the heat was palpable, the air thick with the acrid smell of burning charcoal and hammered metal, and the clang of hammers resonated like the beating heart of the craft.
Mestre Domingo, shirtless and sweating, his muscles gnarled and his face blackened with soot, barely looked up from the anvil where he was shaping a complex piece. He was an artist of iron, his reputation extending far beyond Lisbon.
"Domingo, my old friend!" João de Carrasca's deep, warm voice echoed above the din.
The master blacksmith let his hammer drop with a metallic clatter, his dark, piercing eyes lighting up with recognition. "João! By all the saints! Look at this! My little João become a Marquês, by my beard!" He wiped a dirty hand on his leather apron and stepped forward, arms open for a hearty embrace. "To what do I owe the honor of such a visit? I thought the courtiers of Ribeira had already drowned you in honors."
João laughed, a spark of complicity in his eyes. "Honors, Mestre, are a light burden compared to the weight of what I have in mind. I need your hands, and your mind."
He gestured to a sailor who discreetly carried two muskets. One was a basic model, sturdy but unadorned, typical of surplus purchased across Europe. The other, which João held delicately, was his own rifle, the one he often carried, of a slightly different design.
Mestre Domingo took the weapons, his expert gaze caressing them. He examined the basic musket with a knowing eye, then his brow furrowed as he discovered João's weapon. He turned it over and over, his calloused fingers exploring the barrel, the muzzle, the fine engravings. He paused at the small metal ring, the "socket" that allowed the bayonet to be fixed to the barrel without obstructing the bore.
"Interesting... very interesting," the blacksmith murmured, almost ignoring João in his absorption. His fingers traced the barrel's line. "A bayonet that doesn't block the shot... Clever. The metalwork here... it's... more precise than usual. It needs a perfect fit." He felt the wood of the stock. "And the wood, it must be strong and well-machined to support the socket without splitting. It's difficult, João. It demands great dexterity." He looked up at his friend, a mix of admiration and professional caution. "But yes... yes, it's feasible. For a few weapons, it's a job that would honor any armorer."
The sound of the forge seemed to dim, as if even the molten iron held its breath. João inhaled slowly; the moment had come.
"Wonderful, Mestre," João said, his voice calm but every word resonating with determination. "But I don't need a few. I need thirty thousand of these muskets."
A thick silence, deeper than the usual clamor of the forge, settled. Mestre Domingo blinked, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. He placed the muskets on a workbench with a slightly heavy gesture.
"Thirty thousand?" The blacksmith's voice was a rough hiss, barely audible. He suddenly burst into an incredulous laugh, a dry, disillusioned sound. "Thirty thousand, João? Have you been drinking the devil's wine in your distant Indies! Where would you find the metal? Where would you find the men capable of such work? I can put my dozen apprentices on it, and perhaps a few other masters. But thirty thousand... that's a century's work for all of Lisbon!"
______
After that brief encounter, Joao decided to goback to little Simao and Dona Beatriz in algarve...Not even visiting him in lisbon after so long,the marchioness seemsreluctant, notlike he doesnt ahave anyingormaitons, but like all "in the know " are trying to let him discover "something" by going there....