Chapter 462: The Slave Market

“Your conscience… is a magnificent thing,” Scade found himself saying, a hint of pidgin in his tone. He clapped Quark Qiong on the shoulder, a gesture of satisfaction. Though taken aback by the sudden familiarity, Quark understood the clear message of approval and delight. He responded with another deep bow.

“Aside from the horses we specifically require, you may continue to operate the trade in Caucasian female slaves. However, the numbers must be restricted,” Scade stated. “Your next shipment may contain a maximum of four hundred female slaves. Thereafter, until your permit expires, you are limited to two hundred per year. I must remind you, however, that you hold no monopoly on this particular trade. We will purchase from any merchant who can provide us with a satisfactory supply.”

This long-term import policy served a dual purpose: it provided the Elders with a continuous selection, and it obfuscated their true numbers from prying eyes.

“I shall devote all my efforts to your service!” Quark Qiong was ecstatic. This arrangement guaranteed him the export of at least a thousand female slaves to Lingao over the next three or four years—a venture promising magnificent profits.

“Ahem.” Scade cleared his throat, a hint of awkwardness in his demeanor. “Furthermore, with your next shipment of women, you are to bring ten Caucasian male slaves, aged between twelve and fifteen. This is a one-time-only import.”

Quark hesitated. “Forgive me for asking, but is your request for… eunuchs?”

“Eunuchs?” Scade’s denial was swift. “We have no need of eunuchs. We require Caucasian males. Not Caucasian eunuchs.”

Quark bowed deeply once more. “I live to serve the Senate!”

A man utterly without scruples in the pursuit of gold, Scade thought. A truly excellent merchant!

The conversation then shifted to the importation of Southeast Asian slaves. While the mines at Sanya had once reached their capacity for such labor, the high mortality rates associated with the massive development projects in Kaohsiung had turned a surplus into a deficit. Wei Bachi was sending a constant stream of requests for more Southeast Asian slaves to be transported to Taiwan, compelling Scade to demand that Quark expand his supply chain.

Quark’s expression grew troubled. His slave trade, while successful, was a delicate operation. He had painstakingly established his own trade routes and stations across the Spice Islands, but the act of capturing slaves was brutally inefficient. When European colonists attempted it directly, the returns were rarely worth the effort. Success depended on local powers—chiefs and sultans—to act as suppliers, much as the Ashanti Kingdom in Ghana had long served as purveyors of African slaves for the Atlantic trade.

Quark had earned a certain reputation across the Moluccas. Some locals now specifically stockpiled prisoners of war and criminals to sell to him. Certain chieftains and pirates had also turned to raiding for captives as a lucrative enterprise. But these were small-scale suppliers. Quark, along with Captain Higgins—now his business partner—was forced to sail from island to island, purchasing human cargo. The cycle was long, the costs were high, the risks were great, and the mortality rate among the slaves was appalling.

To expand his sources, Quark had devised a new, ambitious plan, one that had already secured the backing of the British East India Company’s East Asia Council.

The plan was simple in its audacity: to incite a local “Sultan” to wage a large-scale war. The Moluccas were home to three competing “empires,” perpetually caught in a dance of cooperation and conflict with British and Dutch colonists, and, more importantly, with each other. Stirring the pot of their rivalries would be no great challenge. All it required was a little something to tip the scales of power.

That something was the rifle. Matchlocks and gunpowder, introduced by traders, had already become coveted commodities among the archipelago’s native chieftains and sultans. Their warriors were arming themselves with firearms, as were the Malay pirates who prowled the seas in their swift prahus.

But importing matchlocks from Europe was a costly and inefficient endeavor. The long sea voyage resulted in significant damage to the weapons. Local production was barely an option; only Batavia possessed a small military workshop, but it was plagued by a scarcity of skilled artisans and a dependence on imported materials. Output was negligible. Furthermore, the Dutch were hardly inclined to sell to their British rivals. Commercial competition in the East Indies was a bitter affair, and the Dutch held no love for the English.

“If the Senate could provide an adequate supply of matchlocks as trade goods,” Quark proposed, “doubling the slave supply would be no problem at all.”

Scade nodded. This aligned perfectly with the original rationale for developing the Nanyang-style rifle. Beyond serving as a cheap firearm for the Pacification Army, exporting a simplified “monkey model” for proxy conflicts had always been part of the plan.

“We have an excellent rifle for export,” Scade said with a conspiratorial smile. “It is ten times better than any matchlock. And more importantly, its users will be forced to purchase their ammunition from you, indefinitely…” He chuckled, delighted by the sheer elegance of the scheme.

“With such a marvelous product,” Quark replied, his voice laced with fawning admiration, “meeting the Senate’s needs, even if they were ten times greater, would be no problem. I fear the Moluccas will soon be emptied of their native people…”

“You know,” Scade said, leaning in with a mysterious air, “I would suggest you start stockpiling your wares. The Dutch may very well become your customers soon.”

Quark was taken aback, stammering, “What? They mean to enter the trade as… sellers?”

“No, not at all,” Scade reassured him. “Like us, they will soon find themselves in desperate need of a large labor force.”

“Impossible,” Quark countered, his knowledge of the Dutch in Batavia certain. “Their current stock of Javanese slaves is more than sufficient. And for any new development around Batavia, they would sooner import Chinese laborers than take on more Southeast Asians.”

“Oh, they will need them. They will,” Scade repeated with a knowing smile, patting Quark’s shoulder again. “Now, how about it? Would you care to attend an auction this evening? The very slaves you delivered will be on the block. It promises to be an event of unprecedented scale.”

“It would be my honor,” Quark found himself saying.

The second Maid Auction was upon them. The chosen venue was a warehouse in the Bo Pu quarantine district. It was spacious enough to hold both the prospective buyers and the “merchandise,” and its high ceilings promised some relief from the oppressive summer heat for the hundreds expected to attend.

Given the limited number of slaves in this shipment and their relatively consistent quality—a testament to Quark’s careful selection—the General Office had adopted a proposal from Fang Fei. The women were to be graded S, A, B, and C. The S-grade slaves would be subject to open, competitive bidding. The others would be distributed via a lottery. An Elder with a winning number could choose his prize, paying a fixed price according to its grade. A high number meant first pick; a low number meant slim pickings, or none at all. The system, at least, guaranteed every Elder an equal chance.

Xiao Zishan stood thumbing through the auction catalog. Fang Fei, who was busy directing the crew setting up the stage, noticed his absorption and sauntered over.

“Well, well,” Fang Fei teased. “Thinking of buying one for yourself?”

“Ah… well…” Xiao Zishan flushed slightly. “The thought… has crossed my mind. But with such a limited supply, priority should go to the general body of Elders…”

“Oh, put away your false propriety,” Fang Fei scoffed. “You’re not like me. You don’t have a wife. What’s stopping you from acquiring a tall, foreign beauty for yourself?” He broke off to bark a few orders at the carpenters before turning back. “You didn’t buy a maid at the last auction, either.”

“I’m still… considering it,” Xiao Zishan mumbled, eager to change the subject. “I was just observing the ethnic diversity of the slaves. It’s quite the collection.”

Basra, a nexus of human trafficking for the Near East, drew its victims from the Mediterranean, the Black Sea, and the heart of Africa. The manifest from Quark’s shipment was a testament to this grim diversity: Slavs were the most numerous, followed by Arabs and Persians, then a scattering of Turks, Greeks, Armenians, Azerbaijanis, Georgians, Italians, and Jews.

“What an ethnic cocktail,” Fang Fei mused. “Utterly complex. We’ll have to teach them all to speak Mandarin.”

“Is the plan finalized?”

“It is. Every Elder attending has been briefed. They have all pledged their full cooperation.”

By nightfall, the preparations were complete. Heavy curtains shrouded the windows, plunging the warehouse into darkness, save for the brilliant glare of gas lamps focused on a hastily constructed “display stage” in the center. The surrounding seating area remained in deep shadow, a measure to protect the privacy of the Elders.

After dark, the slaves arrived in horse-drawn carts. Only the sixteen S-grade women were slated for this auction. In reality, seventeen had been delivered. The last was Doña Marina de Arellano.

Marina walked in a daze, led by a serving woman into the auction hall. The warehouse district, usually desolate, was now under a tight cordon of guards. An unnatural silence pressed in from the outside.

The slaves were herded into a pen beside the stage, watched over by two maids. The guards did not stop the women from looking around or whispering amongst themselves.

She gave her head a little shake, a futile attempt to dispel the gnawing fear and anxiety of the past days. She lowered her veil just enough to survey her surroundings.

The patrons seemed to be exclusively the short-haired Australians. They were dressed in plain cotton jackets, their heads uncovered like the lowliest peasants, yet they all projected an unnerving air of self-assurance, a look that said the world belonged to them.

Suddenly, Marina spotted Miss Mendoza. She gave a subtle wave, and the woman approached.

“Miss Mendoza,” she whispered in Spanish, “thank you for your help. I shall never forget your kindness.”