Chapter 30: A letter across the ocean

Francisco was asleep when a knock at the door woke him.

A servant stood outside. “Young master, your father wishes to see you in his office.”

Francisco nodded, rubbed his eyes, and followed.

“Did you call for me?” he asked when he entered the study.

Carlos looked up from his desk. “That’s right. I heard our little guest is preparing to leave. Did you say something to him?”

Francisco sighed. “Yes. After our meeting with Miss Laura and Mr. Mauricio, I realized our family has started attracting attention. Keeping him here would be dangerous. He’s already recovered, so I asked him to leave.”

Carlos’s lips curved slightly. “Good. That was the right call. But I also wanted to speak to you about something else—your sister, Isabella. She’s at the age where she must begin her studies. I don’t want her attending the schools in Antioquía; they’re tied too closely to the Church. I’ve seen the path you’re walking—more academic, more practical. I thought perhaps you could teach her yourself. Better than any school could.”

There was pride in his tone.

Francisco hesitated. The image of Catalina’s tired face—drowning in ledgers and debts—flashed in his mind. “I’ll do it,” he said with a mischievous smile. “But only if you pay me.”

Carlos’s face darkened. For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then he leaned back, a grin spreading. “Very well. But if I pay you, then you’ll have to pay for your and Catalina’s expenses in this house. What do you say?”

Francisco froze. Darker than me…

he thought. “Money? That’s not necessary! We’re family. Family should help each other out,” he replied with righteous indignation.

“That’s what I thought,” Carlos sneered. Then his expression shifted to curiosity. “But tell me—why do you want money? Haven’t I been generous enough? You’re still building factories that generate no profit. If it were your grandfather, he’d have already broken your legs for wasting so much without results.”

Francisco lowered his gaze. “Debts. I saw how hard Catalina was working with the ledgers… with the debts I owe you. So—” He couldn’t bring himself to finish.

“So you thought to extort your own father?” Carlos laughed coldly. “But… it’s not a bad idea. Some families in Antioquía want their sons to learn real knowledge—sciences, mathematics. But the Church pushes only theology and Latin. They’ve even started hiring tutors from Europe. Why not take the job yourself? They might prefer a local with proven results.”

Francisco blinked. “But I’m just a fifteen-year-old boy. Would they take me seriously?”

“If it were before the cement, no,” Carlos said. “But after your new cement spread? Actions speak louder than words. Reinventing a material like that isn’t simple—it proves your knowledge. That alone could convince them. I can invite some of those families to see the construction site. Once they witness the cement firsthand, they’ll be eager to have you teach their children.”

Francisco’s eyes lit up. “Really? That would be fantastic! But… another problem. Your letter must have already reached Germany. If Hanover accepts me, I’ll have to leave for Europe. I could only teach for a few months.”

Carlos chuckled. “That would make you more prestigious, not less. Those families would be even more eager to send their children to a boy accepted into a German university.”

“In that case, do it,” Francisco said firmly.

“Good. I’ll send out invitations for dinner this weekend. Also—” Carlos pulled a book from his desk, his eyes glinting. “This just arrived. Arithmetica Universalis, by a famous philosopher, Isaac Newton. It’s a forbidden book—the Church banned it. I was lucky to find it. Study it carefully, but be discreet. If the churchs discovers it, we’ll be in trouble.”

Francisco’s breath caught. He accepted the book reverently, scanning its pages. “Algebra, equations… the fundamentals of calculus…” His eyes sparkled. I don’t yet know where this will be useful, but if I can master it, I’ll be able to optimize everything.

“I’ll take it,” he said with determination.

“Good,” Carlos replied, satisfied. “go. I’ll deal with the families.”

Meanwhile across the Ocean in december of 1790 —in the Old Continent—a messenger approached a house surrounded by soldiers. Their gazes carried the weight of blood and steel.

“Excuse me,” the messenger stammered, “I have a letter from New Granada for Johann Friedrich Kruger.”

The soldier frowned. “Wait here. I’ll inform the captain.”

The messenger’s knees nearly buckled. The innkeeper had told him this man was no noble, just a commoner… but no ordinary man lived guarded by killers like these.

A few minutes later, the soldier returned. “Who sent the letter?”

“Carlos Gomez, from New Granada,” the messenger replied, his voice shaking. “He said… he was recommended by Anna.”

The soldier’s face twisted. He disappeared inside, and moments later, a furious roar shook the house. When he reemerged, blood trickled down his cheek.

“Arrest him!” the soldier ordered.

“Wait! I’m just a messenger!” the poor man cried, but a fist silenced him.

They dragged him into a grand hall. An old man, nearly eighty, paced like a beast in a cage, eyes bloodshot with fury.

“You dog!” Johann Friedrich Kruger thundered. “How dare you invoke my dead daughter’s name to deceive me! I’ll kill him—kill his entire family! And you—” his glare fell on the trembling courier “—tell me everything you know, or I’ll tear you apart!”

The messenger collapsed to his knees. “I-I swear, sir, I know nothing! Please, let me show you the letter!”

An attendant stepped forward carefully. “Sir… perhaps we should read it first. Remember, your wife and daughter’s bodies were never found—”

“Silence!” Johann bellowed. “Do you think I don’t remember? I’ve searched for twenty-five years. Nothing. And now—now you expect me to believe this? It’s a trick! A plot from those damned Junkers who hate that a commoner rose to major! Even at my age they still scheme against me!”

But another soldier whispered in the attendant’s ear.

“Sir,” the attendant said softly, “we’ve checked. The messenger is indeed from New Granada. His ship departed from Spain.”

Johann’s fury faltered. To pay someone from across the ocean for such a cruel trick? Unlikely. And the courier’s terror… it was too real.

“Bring me the letter,” Johann ordered.

Shaking, the messenger handed it over.

Johann read, and his brows drew together:

“Honorable Sir,With the respect you deserve, I take the liberty to write. My name is Carlos Gomez. In memory of my late wife—she entrusted me with your name. She told me that if I or our sons ever needed something from Germany, I should reach out to you.

I now fulfill her wish. Our son Francisco desires to study in Hanover, but I lack the connections. I beg your favor in this matter. Whether your answer is positive or negative, I will be grateful, so that we may prepare.”

His hands trembled. Then he noticed another sheet—written in German, in a delicate, familiar hand.

Tears blurred his vision. “This… this is her handwriting.”

The room froze. Soldiers, attendants—none dared breathe.

Johann clutched the letter to his chest. “She’s gone… but at least she lived a good life.” His voice cracked. The old man wept, shoulders shaking.

Minutes later, he struck the floor with his cane. “Idiots! Why are you tormenting our guest? Get him a chair! And pants—look at him, he wet himself from fear!”

The soldiers exchanged bitter looks but obeyed.

The attendant could only sigh. First you order them to beat him, now you scold them for obeying. Shameless old man.

Johann ignored them, sitting at his desk to write a reply. But no matter how many drafts he tried, none felt right. Thirty times he scratched words onto paper, and thirty times he tore them up.

The attendant leaned toward the messenger. “Perhaps you should return tomorrow. The major… needs time.”

The messenger, feeling as though he had escaped the jaws of hell, nearly cried in relief. “No problem—absolutely no problem.”

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