Okay, Master Strategist, here is the English translation of your compelling narrative.
The world, at the dawn of 1656, was a chessboard where European powers vied for maritime routes and the riches of the Indies.
Spain, of course, with her galleons laden with silver. The young Republic of the United Provinces, arrogant and ambitious, whose Dutch East India Company (VOC) spat out entire fleets, her plump ships bursting with spices, silks, and porcelains. England, frowning, was already sharpening her claws. And Portugal…
Portugal, once mistress of the seas, the world's trailblazer, languished. Her "golden age" seemed to have dissolved into the vast oceans, her empire eroded by Dutch and English assaults, her riches siphoned off by hazardous alliances. International prestige? A scar. The Portuguese Crown yearned to reclaim a glimmer of its past splendor, to make its coat of arms shine again upon the waves.
It was against this backdrop of vain aspirations that whispers began to circulate about the "Horizon Brazil Company," or more elaborately, its eleven shareholders. Not the weary spice merchants of the trading posts, but newcomers, former buccaneers who had a bothersome habit of turning the impossible into insolent profit. Their ships were not the heavy old carracks, but finer, faster beasts, strangely silent on the water, their hulls black as a moonless night.
And then, the thunderclap. Not in Lisbon, nor even in Goa, but somewhere off the coast of Angola, in the churning waters of the South Atlantic. A VOC squadron, ten heavily armed merchant ships and their escort frigates, reputed to be uncatchable, the pride of the Company. They sailed downwind, confident in their firepower and the superiority of their naval design.
What they hadn't anticipated was the silence. The strange hiss that preceded the boarding. Those grappling hooks that seemed to stick to the decks soundlessly, those crews that emerged from the spray like ghosts, wielding cutlasses with a ferocity even hardened Dutchmen hadn't seen since the buccaneers of the Caribbean. There were no great pitched battles, no epic cannonades. It was a hunt, swift and ruthless.
The VOC ships, reputed to be invincible, were seized. Not sunk, but captured. Intact, their holds overflowing with musk, cloves, cinnamon, pepper, and even a large quantity of precious stones. The Dutch prisoners told stories of ships that glided over the water like shadows, of grappling hooks that clung to the hull, of sailors who moved with disarming agility, their strength amplified by some unknown sorcery.
In Lisbon, the news fell like a rain of gold. The Royal Council, at first incredulous, then exultant. Not only was the cargo worth an utterly unexpected fortune, but the symbol… Ah, the symbol! To seize VOC ships, the most feared company, and bring them into port. It was a masterstroke that restored a forgotten pride to Portugal, an unexpected international éclat. Rumors circulated that the hulls of João and his crew's ships were strangely smooth and resilient, that they used sails of a new fabric, and that their agility came from an indecipherable secret.
For the Crown, it was a boon, proof that the glory Portugal needed had been rekindled. For João and his crew, it was a demonstration of their worth, their audacity, and their innovative power. Their contribution of 2.5 million cruzados to the royal treasury from this extraordinary capture had confirmed the King's interest in them, and also sown the seeds of admiration among rival powers, but also fear, a typical trait of "work for" according to João.
The Grand Palace, jewel of Lisbon, was not yet the phantom that the 1755 earthquake would reduce to dust.
On this day in 1656, it displayed its rococo splendor on the banks of the Tagus, its polychrome marbles catching the setting sun that danced on the painted mythological ceilings.
Persian carpets muffled the footsteps of courtiers, and Venetian chandeliers cast thousands of stars upon the polished armor of the royal guards.
That evening, a peculiar tension hung in the air, thick with cinnamon and frankincense.
It was no mere ball.
The "Men of Prestige" were to be ennobled.
In the Throne Room, beneath the piercing eyes of the Inquisition painted on the frescoes, the Court had gathered.
King Dom João IV sat enthroned, his face impassive beneath his powdered wig.
Beside him, the Royal Council, somber, draped figures, observed with unconcealed curiosity the eleven men who advanced.
There stood Admiral Dom Vasco de Castelo Branco, with a cavernous voice and a battle scar, an emblematic figure of the landed aristocracy.
Opposite him, the Marquis de Pombal, still young, but already sharp as a blade, one eye on the maps of Brazil, the other on the royal coffers.
"My Lord," began the Marquis, his voice carrying just enough to be heard, "the matter of these fidalgos without lineage is… delicate. Ten years of such fruitful trade, of wartime prizes… and this secret about their fortune. What to give them, without offending those whose blood is older than the ink on our parchments?"
Vasco de Castelo Branco cleared his throat. "Lands, Marquis. Lands. The title is worth nothing without an anchor. But not ours, for heaven's sake." His gaze slid to the eleven men, among whom Captain João stood tall, containing his laughter with a slight curl of his lips, a smile.
The King, with a slow gesture, pointed to a map laid out on a mother-of-pearl inlaid table. "The Algarve. The south. Ungrateful lands, exposed to the Barbary corsairs. Woods, scrubland. Rocky hills. They are ours, but bring only troubles."
A murmur rippled through the assembly. The Algarve.
A poisoned gift for some, an opportunity for visionaries.
The Count of Vale Flor, an old courtier with yellowed teeth, chuckled discreetly. "A fine challenge for sailors, Your Majesty. Leave those lands to the goats… or to the plow of these newcomers."
The Marquis de Pombal, meanwhile, pondered.
He knew the rumors about these men's "miracles" concerning rubber, their ability to transform the impossible.
"Your Majesty, these men have faster ships, sails that do not rot at sea. If land is their burden, let it also be their field of experimentation.
Let us grant them eleven of the 'Barrocal Baronies,' those desolate domains of the Algarvian Barrocal, where rivers vanish in summer. Let them prove themselves."
João and crew, pensive at these words, recalled the discussions they'd had about the lands. Some had opted to go directly to Brazil, asking for the Capitancy of Santa Catarina outright. But after much debate, the divergences became so great that they reverted to their pirate tradition.
They chose a captain. João voted for Diogo, saying, "Sometimes you have to strike first and think later." But the crew shook their heads – including Diogo – before voting for João, who opted to play with water dams and terraced cultivation, as he had observed in Cathay.
Pulling them from this brief moment of contemplation, the King nodded.
The idea of transforming these areas into a granary through the money and ingenuity of these men was not displeasing to him.
And if it failed, the loss to the Crown would be minimal. What's more, he had sensed the opportunity of rubber. And already, that trade alone brought over 700,000 cruzados in customs duties to the Crown's coffers, plus the sudden influx of 2.5 million additional cruzados, and restored prestige for Portugal. Beyond having ended Dutch ambitions in Brazil, it also gave Portugal a chance to regain, at least in part, control over trade with the East. Their choice of this particular area surprised him a little.
Their choice of the Algarve, this desolate and royal region, without competition from established nobles, seemed like proof of their loyalty, or at least, of their adherence to the rules of the game.
Later, in a private parlor with gilded woodwork, the eleven new "Fidalgo de Cota de Armas," now officially nobles, gathered.
João, his face less tense, glanced at his ten associates.
"Lands," said one of them, Dom Gonçalo, his brow furrowed. "Goat lands. Are we plowmen?"
João smiled, a shark's grin. "Hahahahahahaa! When we no longer need the ships, you can go to sea or to Brazil, once the ground is established, I will build eleven mansions like the one we have not far – in Lisbon. With these lands, we will acquire something we lack: the experience to establish a colony. It will be better than arriving haphazardly and learning everything on the fly. A solid base. But, my friends, the Crown puts us in a bind, especially for those who don't want to..."
He pointed to a stack of parchments on a table. "The engagements. All of us must find a wife."
Dom Diogo, one of those concerned, blanched. "Marriages? For this?"
"Daughters of enriched merchants, of lesser provincial nobility. Families eager for ascent. There are even some of the old nobility, but now impoverished. I think Luís should enjoy this."
"Enjoy it?" Luís asked, surprised.
"For this," replied João, his voice grave. "Trust. The 'work with.' If I can't even convert my own wife, then humanity is truly lost."
"Yes, yes, Christendom is truly lost… you want to make her a Brazilian?"
"No, that's not it. He wants to marry a Brazilian, but for now they're all Portuguese."
The taunts continued for some time.
He picked up one of the parchments. "Dona Leonor, daughter of the Lord of Loulé. A strong alliance for land management. A future for what we will build. And anyway, you don't intend to leave these young ladies as old maids, do you?"
The murmurs ceased. They understood. This was not an arbitrary choice made solely on the "captain's" whim, but an elaborate plan, like the attack on the Dutch ships, the next phase of the "work with."
Their matrimonial alliances, transforming these eleven "baronies" into an essential instrument for the establishment of the colony with solid relations in Lisbon, but with this time a distinct caste: the nobility.
The customs of a way of life, not yet ready for total "work with."
The eleven shareholders had begun their endeavors; first, spending a small sum from the pirate spoils to move equipment to the Algarve, another part to begin "selling" the Brazilian dream in Eastern Europe: the Counter-Reformation? Simply put: bring Catholics out of serfdom, a small fortune, including transport.
Then, preparing some additional ships to supply latex from Brazil.
After the marriages, the crew would separate for a few years and reunite occasionally in Lisbon.
The Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, in the mid-17th century, was a crucible of misery.
The Wars of Religion had left deep scars, the lands were ravaged, and serfdom, that invisible but relentless chain, bound millions of Poles and Lithuanians, and so many other ethnic groups, to an existence of endless toil, hunger, and often gratuitous repression.
Local lords sold their peasants as one sold cattle, their bodies tied to the land, their souls to misery.
It was in this despair that a strange rumor began to spread, carried by discreet peddlers and whispers from the West.
They spoke of "Lords of Portugal," fabulously wealthy men who offered a chance, a new life.
Not as serfs, no, God forbid, but as free colonists, or at least, freed from their Polish serfdom, to work a new land, blessed by wind, water, and even something almost unknown in these lands: the hot and sometimes scorching sun.
Agents of "Horizon Brazil," disguised as honest merchants, sometimes with the support of royal emissaries, presented themselves before Polish lords, indebted or eager to get rid of a "useless mouth." The speech was well-rehearsed:
"Lord," said one of them, a man with sharp eyes and a confident demeanor, "we do not seek serfs for a new yoke.
Portugal, a land of faith and freedom, offers a unique opportunity.
Our 'Lords of Prestige,' new fidalgos ennobled by the King, following many exploits you may have heard of, wish to populate vast virgin lands in their distant Brazil.
Lands so fertile they would break your heart with joy!"
He then unrolled maps, not of exact Brazil, but embellished engravings, showing coconut trees bending under fruit, rivers as wide as seas, sugarcane fields as green as emerald.
Brazil was depicted as a land of divine abundance, where every believing man could find prosperity and the freedom he dreamed of.
"Your peasants, Lord," the agent continued, his voice smooth, "they are loyal, hardworking, and above all, Catholic. Portugal, a bulwark of the true faith, will welcome them with open arms. We will pay the price of their redemption, a just price for the liberation of their souls and bodies. And once they arrive there, they will no longer be serfs. They will work our lands, certainly, but for a wage, for a share of the harvest, and with the promise that after a few years of hard labor, a small plot may become their own. They will build churches, they will found families. They will be, for the first time, truly free men."
For the lords, it was a godsend: hard cash for serfs who, otherwise, would be only an uncertain annual rent and a burden in times of famine.
With the best possible justification for them in the eyes of their peers: "it is for the true faith," and "above all for my purse."
For the serfs personally, the proposition, relayed by the agents as a gospel, with the support of the church, was a glimmer of hope at the end of an endless tunnel.
The promise of no longer being tied to the land, of no longer being the property of a master, of being able to found their own home in a country where the religion was the same, but the language different, as were some other customs.
Of course, the reality of the journey would be brutal. The work in the Algarve first, then later in Brazil, would be exhausting, and "freedom" would be relative, completely dependent on the success of the eleven future Captains of Santa Catarina.
But for these desperate souls, the promise of Portugal was one of redemption, an escape from a life that was not truly a life.
They were not bought as slaves; they were "redeemed" from serfdom, a moral nuance that suited the Portuguese Crown and the consciences (or lack thereof) of the Polish-Lithuanian nobles.
Portugal thus became the bearer of a new form of emancipation, a Brazilian dream tinged with hope and sweat.
A few weeks after the ennoblement ceremony, the Algarve was already buzzing with unusual activity.
Far from the hushed salons of Lisbon, the first group of pirates, led by Dom João, disembarked at Portimão.
The port city, accustomed to the slender silhouettes of fishermen and rough sailors, was astonished by the deployment of resources.
The ships of "Horizon Brazil," faster and stranger than any local vessel, unloaded tons of equipment: precisely forged tools, sturdy carts, and even prefabricated structures for the first encampments.
As well as the armed men, and some purses still strong with a few hundred cruzados, their contracts still ongoing, and having nothing better to do.
The first task was to strengthen Portimão's defenses.
Teams of engineers (secretly recruited, often former unemployed military experts) inspected the dilapidated ramparts, their fingers blackened by charcoal sketching audacious plans.
A few rolls of rubber, discreetly brought in, were integrated: joints for cannons, invisible reinforcements in the dock structures, making the defenses more resilient and effective than ever.
The local militias, accustomed to the laxity of royal garrisons, observed with a mix of admiration and suspicion these men who transformed the city into a fortress in a few weeks.
Meanwhile, teams of explorers, led by João and Rui – ah! "Dom João" and "Dom Rui," now – ventured into the Odelouca valley.
Their maps were not those of the Crown, imprecise and uninterested in the uncultivated areas, but detailed surveys, inspired by the Chinese techniques João had brought back from Cathay.
They sought the precise spot, the ideal gorge for their first dam.
Their eyes and ears saw and heard not just woods and scrubland, but contour lines, watersheds, opportunities for cascading terraces.
The local inhabitants, peasants and shepherds, observed them with circumspection, astonished to see these "fidalgos" getting their hands dirty in the mud and rocks.
In Lisbon, the murmurs continued, but they took a new turn.
"They say they're buying Poles," whispered Dona Isabella, a sharp-eyed lady-in-waiting, to the Baroness de Alvito during a supper at Court. "Serfs, they say, who come to work the land."
The Baroness raised an eyebrow. "Poles? To hell with it. All the better if they clear that wasteland. But it's strange labor. Who will supervise them?"
Admiral Vasco de Castelo Branco, during a chess game with a colleague, grumbled: "They are building things in the Algarve, they say. Fortifications… and canals. The King is delighted, apparently. But what bug bites them to take an interest in mere pebbles?"
The Marquis de Pombal, meanwhile, listened.
He had received more precise reports.
The massive arrival of foreigners, the military organization of the construction sites, the speed of execution… these "Men of Prestige" were not just playing at being landed nobles.
They were building something new, efficient, and Portuguese, but with a touch that belonged only to them.
He sensed that the Algarve, this land given with a certain disdain by those who ignored that they had asked for it, would become the laboratory of a power that could well surpass the Crown's wildest dreams.
But for now, he let the others laugh at these "new fidalgos" who preferred goats to diamonds.
He knew there was a plan behind the activities of these eleven.