Life on the Fiefs
While the expeditionary fleet was the spearhead, the true enduring strength of João's defiance lay with the men of the enterprises in Portugal and Brazil.
The "Dads' Club" – those peers who remained, their wives often newly pregnant or tending newborns like Simão – bore the weight of securing the future.
Their days were a complex tapestry woven from the threads of paternal tenderness and ruthless corporate management.
They oversaw the vast Horizon Brazil network, ensuring that the rubber flowed, diamonds trickled, and the sixty mechanical looms of the Companhia dos Panos de Lisboa hummed with efficiency, generating the wealth that funded their audacious gamble.
On João and Beatriz's own sprawling manor in the Algarve, the contrast was stark.
Within, the soft cooing of baby Simão, the gentle murmur of Beatriz's voice, and the quiet joy of new parenthood created an oasis of tranquility before the newfound winds turned the tide of waves into a raging force.
But just beyond the heavy oak doors, and along the perimeter walls, the manor bristled with a discreet but palpable security. João's wealth afforded him a private army, men loyal not to the Crown's dwindling authority but to the promise of the fief, even for those guards, and tax collectors.
These guards, clad in practical, unostentatious livery that masked their disciplined training, patrolled the grounds day and night. They were veteran soldiers, many recruited from the ranks of the disaffected or the highly ambitious, their presence a constant reminder that this dream was built on defiance, requiring unwavering vigilance against spies, rival noble intrigues, and especially opportunistic brigands drawn by the rumors of new wealth. The very air of the manor carried a duality: the fragile hope of new life juxtaposed with the hardened readiness for conflict, a microcosm of João's entire enterprise.
Meticulous Calculations: Preparations Reach a Fever Pitch
As winter ceded to the early Portuguese spring of 1660, the final months of preparation intensified into a grueling, relentless rhythm.
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Sea Maneuvers and Tactical Refinement
Off the coast of the Algarve, where deep waters allowed for discreet operations, the fleet performed a mesmerizing, deadly ballet.
Day after day, the 27 vessels, now fully armed and provisioned, practiced their intricate maneuvers. The 20 specialized 500-tonne frigates showcased their unique agility, practicing rapid approaches and intricate positioning for boarding.
Crews drilled endlessly on grappling and securing enemy vessels, their men swarming over mock decks.
The deployable rubber "cuirasse" on parts of their hulls was put to the test, absorbing the impacts of controlled, reduced-charge musket fire, proving its worth in mitigating casualties during the approach.
The seven massive East Indiamen, though less agile, practiced maintaining their defensive formations, their heavy cannon trained to unleash devastating broadsides to clear the way for their boarding brethren.
Signal flags, lamplit communications for night operations, and emergency drills were executed with ruthless precision.
Every man, from the most seasoned captain to the greenest recruit, knew his duties in João's radical tactical vision: breaking the line, closing the distance, and overwhelming the enemy through sheer, disciplined aggression.
While João was the undisputed architect of this grand design and the strategic mastermind, his direct involvement in ship command had been limited for almost two years, during which he had been immersed in the fief's developments, the "buying of the poles," attracting migrants from the Italian principalities and the relentless expansion of Horizon Brazil.
It was Dom Diogo da Veiga who truly breathed life into the fleet's tactical execution.
As the de facto leader of the fleet's maneuvers, Diogo, with his inherent understanding of naval combat and his cultivated instinct for "a primeira lançada" (the first thrust/charge), personally oversaw the grueling drills.
He was the pragmatic seaman who translated João's audacious tactical approach into tangible, on-the-water tactics.
His presence on the decks, his sharp commands.
His raw, untamed spirit ensured that every ship, every crew, and every boarding party moved with the ruthless efficiency of a war mongering machine.
He was the tactical mind preparing the fleet for the brutal realities of the upcoming naval war.
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The Logistics of Survival: Sustenance for 7,000 Souls
The sheer scale of provisioning for 7,000 men on a voyage intended to crush the VOC's navy, was a logistical nightmare that had been meticulously planned for months.
Every available space aboard the 25 ships, particularly the vast holds of the East Indiamen, was crammed with sustenance.
Hundreds of tons of salted meat and fish, thousands of barrels of hardtack biscuits, dried peas, beans, and pickled vegetables filled the lower decks, carefully stacked and sealed against the corrosive sea air.
Fresh water, the most precious commodity, was stored in vast numbers of securely bunged casks, each ship carrying enough for roughly 3 to 4 months at absolute maximum.
A stark reminder of the expedition's utter reliance on its planned resupply points.
Detailed manifests outlined the contents of every hold, every storeroom, ensuring that powder was kept separate from provisions, and medical supplies were readily accessible.
João's navigators and quartermasters possessed intricate, newly compiled charts of secret coves and sympathetic settlements along the African coast and deep into the Indian Ocean.
Identifying potential sources for fresh water, livestock, and local provisions away from Dutch eyes. This secret network of potential replenishment points, meticulously cultivated by Horizon Brazil's agents, was as vital to their survival as their cannons.
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Armaments for Annihilation
The decks and magazines of the fleet groaned under the weight of their deadly cargo.
Thousands of Cerceau bayonets, their innovative circular casings gleaming, were stacked in armories, each one a promise of unprecedented infantry efficiency.
Casks of João's special hand grenades, designed for shattering chaos in confined spaces, were secured for quick distribution to boarding parties.
Powder magazines, meticulously sealed and ventilated, held hundreds of barrels of fine-grain gunpowder, enough to feed the ravenous maws of over a thousand cannons spread across the fleet.
Cannonballs of varying calibers, grape shot, and chain shot were precisely arranged in racks, ready to be rolled to the gun decks.
Beyond the heavy ordnance, thousands of muskets, pistols, and sharpened cutlasses filled the racks, ready for the relentless close-quarters combat that João envisioned.
Every aspect of the armament was chosen for its devastating effectiveness in a direct, brutal confrontation against the VOC.
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The Departure and an Unspoken Hope
The morning of March 2nd, 1660, dawned cold and grey over Lisbon. Long before the first hint of sun touched the horizon, a quiet, methodical bustle began in the hidden, deep-water port that served as their final staging ground. There was no fanfare, no cheering crowds, no royal blessings. This was a private, rebellious departure.
Thousands of men, their faces etched with a mixture of grim determination and eager anticipation, filed silently aboard the waiting ships.
Wives, a few brave ones who had defied convention to be there, clung to their husbands, their farewells swallowed by the vastness of the pre-dawn silence.
João stood on the deck of his flagship, the "Rubber Dream," which had been rearranged compared to its initial configuration.
While the 7 converted East Indiamen profiled a stark silhouette against the lightening sky. He watched his men, his formidable fleet, and the receding shoreline.
His face was a mask of resolute command, betraying none of his driving emotions.
He had said his goodbyes to Beatriz and baby Simão moments before, a private farewell exchanged in the cold, pre-dawn light of the manor. He had kissed his son's soft head, whispered a vow to return, and held Beatriz close, her warmth a fleeting comfort against the chill of the coming voyage.
What João did not know, what Beatriz had chosen not to tell him, was a fact that would bind his return with an even more fruitful, untold promise. In the weeks leading up to the departure, amidst the frantic preparations and the tender moments with their firstborn, Beatriz had discovered she was pregnant again.
A second child. Another fragile life, like the bearings of their hope augmented.
She had felt the familiar subtle shifts, the morning sickness returning, the undeniable certainty of it. Her heart had swelled with joy, but a profound wave of protective instinct had immediately followed.
João carried the weight of an entire expedition, the fate of thousands, and the future of their house on his shoulders. To burden him with this news, an intensely personal worry now, on the eve of his monumental, perilous journey, felt cruel.
It was her secret to bear, a silent prayer for his safe return, a personal beacon for him to navigate back to. She would not speak of it, not yet.
He would return to a triumph not only for the empire, but of a new life waiting for him, a testament to the enduring future he fought so desperately to create.
With a final, silent prayer, she watched his flagship pull away, carrying her beloved husband and her unspoken hope towards the vast, unknown East.
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The Journey to the East: Lisbon to Zanzibar
On March 2nd, 1660, the Portuguese coast faded into the wake of João's fleet, the "Rubber Dream" at its head.
The sea, which had once been their training ground, became their world—an infinite expanse of hope and peril. The first days were a test for stomachs, but the discipline instilled by Dom Diogo da Veiga bore fruit.
The men, prepared to operate this floating war machine, quickly adapted to the constant roll, the monotonous rations, and the isolation of the open sea.
João, for his part, shared the daily life of his men. He paced the decks, inspected the holds, and conversed with captains and officers.
His mind was a kaleidoscope of maps, naval strategies, and thoughts of his young son and his wife, whom he had left to begin this war against the VOC, despite the opposition of the Regency Council.
Each evening, under the star-studded sky, he mentally charted their progress, every nautical mile bringing them closer to the inevitable confrontation.
After weeks of rigorous navigation along the African coast, the first stop appeared on the horizon: Luanda. The Angolan port, a beating heart of the Portuguese empire in Southern Africa, offered a welcome respite.
The fleet, under the curious and slightly wary gaze of local authorities—who had not been informed of the exact nature of this armada—anchored in the protected bay.
The stop was brief but essential. Fresh water was replenished in abundance, holds restocked with fresh fruits, local vegetables, and some live meat, offering a welcome relief to palates weary of salt and biscuits.
The men could set foot on solid ground, stretch their legs, and mingle with the inhabitants, exchanging stories and absorbing the city's vibrant energy.
Horizon Brazil's agents, already well-established in the colony, discreetly facilitated supplies and gathered information on recent shipping routes, confirming the absence of major Dutch fleets in the region.
João took the opportunity for a brief council with his commanders, refining the details of the next step and ensuring that motivation and discipline remained intact despite the long days at sea.
Luanda provided a breath to each sailor before heading back to sea, direction the Indies.
The departure from Luanda was as discreet as their arrival. The fleet resumed its eastward course, rounding the Cape of Good Hope in unexpectedly favorable weather.
The Cape, renowned for its furious storms, offered them a surprisingly easy passage, almost an auspicious sign that superstitious sailors interpreted as a divine recognition of their expedition.
The crossing of the Indian Ocean began, a vast, infinite blue under a scorching sun, where only albatrosses were their constant companions.
Several weeks later, the island of Zanzibar, also called Ilha de Moçambique, emerged from the morning mists.
This jewel of the Indian Ocean, then under more or less nominal Portuguese influence, was a vibrant trade hub where African, Arab, and Indian cultures met.
The atmosphere here was radically different from Luanda's: more exotic, more fragrant, imbued with the scent of spices and the clinking of foreign coins.
This second stop was more strategic. Not only were the ships resupplied with perishable goods – sun-drenched tropical fruits, fresh fish, and water – but, crucially, it served as a vital intelligence gathering point.
Horizon Brazil's networks had eyes and ears everywhere. Rumors concerning the movements of the Dutch East India Company (VOC) in the region were carefully filtered and analyzed.
They learned the presumed positions of their trading posts, the state of their fortifications, and even the approximate numbers of their garrisons and fleets patrolling Indian waters.
João and Diogo spent hours deciphering this intelligence, drawing maps, sketching battle scenarios. The atmosphere aboard, though still disciplined, became tinged with palpable tension. The enemy was no longer a distant abstraction but an entity whose contours were becoming clearer with increasing precision.
Minor repairs were carried out, sails inspected, and hulls cleaned of seaweed. Every man in the crew knew that the next stage would be the last before contact. Conversations grew sparser, replaced by whispered prayers and the sharpening of blades.
The departure from Zanzibar was a farewell to all known friendly land. From now on, each day brought them closer to Goa, the pearl of Portuguese India, and the destiny they had come to forge.
The Indian Ocean stretched before them, vast and menacing, carrying not only monsoons but also the Dutch ships that jealously guarded the monopoly of trade routes.
João's fleet, laden with the promise of wealth and the weight of daring, cut through the waves, a spearhead launched into the core of the VOC's empire.
War, invisible but inescapable, already hung in the salty air
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The Royal Audience in Kandy – The Alliance Sealed
October 1660 (shortly after the fleet's arrival in Goa and Cochin)
After a few days of marching through difficult-to-access forests, João's diplomatic delegation reached the royal court of Kandy, deep in the mountains of Ceylon.
The monsoon season was in full swing over the majestic mountains of Kandy, shrouding the green peaks in a veil of mist and mystery.
It was against this ancient backdrop that the embassy, led by the seasoned diplomat Padre Manuel da Costa, a non-zealous Jesuit, skilled in Eastern languages and politics, with a past in Horizon Brazil's ventures, arrived at the royal palace.
He was accompanied by two expedition captains, fully equipped, lending "weight" to the delegation's credibility, and a small, discreet but efficient escort.
The air was heavy with humidity and incense as Padre Manuel was ushered before His Majesty Raja Sinha II, King of Kandy.
The king sat on a sandalwood throne adorned with ivory, his penetrating gaze betraying no emotion beneath the shimmer of his golden ornaments. Around him, Kandyan dignitaries in vibrant attire observed the visitors with measured curiosity.
After the formal greetings and the exchange of gifts – the finely woven rubber capes, the supple boots of a make unknown in Ceylon, and a small, hermetically sealed box containing samples of raw rubber and strange seeds from Brazil – Padre Manuel stepped forward.
"Your Majesty," Padre Manuel began, his voice calm and assured, "Dom João de Carrasca, commanding a fleet whose naval power is unmatched in these waters, has sent you this letter. He offers you not a new servitude, but liberation."
Raja Sinha II listened intently to the letter's translation. His impenetrable face only showed a slight frown at the mention of the cinnamon "grilling," a practice his own intelligence services had reported to him.
Once the reading was finished, silence fell, heavy. It was the king who broke it, his voice deep.
"Your Lord João is audacious. He speaks of freedom, but do not Europeans always speak thus before replacing one chain with another? The Dutch themselves were our allies against the Lusitanians, and now behold: their fortresses encircle our ports, their ships strangle our trade."
Padre Manuel, prepared for this mistrust, responded with respect.
"Your Majesty, the essential difference is that Dom João does not represent the territorial ambitions of the Portuguese Crown in its entirety, at least not as they once were.
He is a man of enterprise, a visionary. His objective is not to build forts in Kandy, but to destroy the Dutch capacity to maintain them.
He seeks the destruction of their naval power here, and the opening of the seas for all, including for you."
One of the dignitaries murmured something to the king, pointing at the rubber capes. Raja Sinha II gestured, and one was brought forward. He touched it, feeling the strange texture, seeing the fineness of the material. "This 'rubber'... Where does it come from? Is it the price of a new servitude?"
"Your Majesty," interjected one of the captains, a robust man with keen eyes. "It is the fruit of a distant land, Brazil. Dom João and his peers have built an empire on this single material—a wealth he shares, not steals. These capes are proof of his ability to innovate, to create new value, and not to plunder what already exists. He does not want your lands; he wants you to control the cinnamon you produce."
The king motioned to his advisors, who exchanged glances. The mention of cinnamon had struck a chord. "It is true that the Dutch are strangling our cinnamon. This 'grilling'… it is an ignominy. But how can a fleet, however powerful, guarantee me the recapture of all of Ceylon's ports?"
"Your Majesty," Padre Manuel resumed, stepping slightly closer. "Dom João has studied your situation. While his fleet crushes that of the VOC at sea, he will give you the means to take Colombo. Not just by cutting off their maritime supplies, but by creating chaos inside the city. Imagine their reserves ablaze, their morale broken, just before your valiant troops launch the land assault. It is a coordinated strategy, a naval hammer blow combined with a dagger in the flank."
Raja Sinha II's eyes lit up with a new glint, one of interest mixed with still palpable caution. The destruction of food reserves, just at the moment of the assault... It was a bold, almost treacherous tactic that appealed to his strategic mind.
After a long pause, the king leaned back on his throne.
"I am prepared to hear more. Show me this plan. Show me how your Lord can prove he does not seek to dominate me, but to restore my dignity. The Dutch have disappointed me. Perhaps your Lord João… offers a different path."
The negotiations continued, blending with the pamphlet João had written against the VOC, which did not fail to attract attention as a copy of this pamphlet had even reached the court of the King of Kandy.
The talks lasted for several intense and detailed days.
Padre Manuel and the captains presented maps, force estimates, and logistical plans. They explained how João's fleet could support the land siege with targeted bombardments and naval blockades. They insisted that this intervention would be a phase of "liberation" and not "conquest," with Kandy regaining its ports and managing its own trade with João's naval support.
Finally, convinced by the sincerity, or at least the mutual interest, of João's proposals, the display of force and innovation, particularly the rubber, and above all, the appeal of retaking the valuable ports and control of cinnamon, Raja Sinha II gave his assent.
"Let the drums of Kandy resonate!" declared the king. "I accept your Lord João's proposal. May the winds of freedom blow over Ceylon, and may fire purify Dutch oppression. Our armies will converge on Colombo. May the Gods favor us."
The alliance was sealed. The stage was set for drama.