Chapter 48: Smuggling immigrants

“Sure,” said the four smugglers, laughing at Ramiro’s foolishness. One less smuggler meant one less man to share the cake—whatever the cake was.The smell of rum and sea salt hung over the table as they laughed, rough voices blending with the clatter of dice and distant waves.

“Before anything, it’s better if we introduce ourselves,” said Francisco.

“I’m Domingo. Heard some things about you from friends in Antioquía,” said the bookish-looking man.

“Aitor. I’m descended from Basques,” said the normal-looking man.

“Adrian. I came from the north, looking to make a fortune,” said the English-looking man.

“Bochica. I’m descended from a Muisca and a mestiza,” said the mestizo.

“Good. Before anything else, let me tell you why I’m looking for you,” said Francisco, going straight to the point. “I need immigrants—not slaves, not forced labor. Real immigrants. People from Europe and even the East who want a better life. I’ve already spoken with the mayor of Antioquía, who’s willing to give land to them. But I need someone to bring them.”

Francisco straightened the cuffs of his coat as he spoke, feeling the faint stickiness of dried ink on his fingers—a trace of the letters he’d written that morning.

Domingo frowned. “Immigrants, huh? That’s new. Why not go through the legal channels? Even if it’s controlled, you should be allowed to bring settlers, no?”

“Not exactly. The Crown only allows Spaniards, and because of the bloodline laws, they bring endless headaches to New Granada. It’s better to bring people from other countries who aren’t tangled in that system,” said Francisco.

“So you want foreigners. That’s why you came to us,” said Aitor.

“That’s right.”

“Okay, I get it. But the important question—how much are you paying per immigrant?” asked Adrian.

“Two hundred pesos per family,” said Francisco. “And yes, that includes children.”

Domingo raised his brows. “That’s too little. You know that’s what a slave costs—an African one at that.”

Francisco rolled his eyes, though his knuckles stayed white on the table under the lamplight. “Don’t tell me you think that’s the same thing. A slave costs more because you have to capture and train them to obey. An immigrant moves by choice.”

“That may be true,” said Domingo, leaning back until the chair creaked, “but since they’re voluntary, we have to convince them. And considering you’re doing this without the Crown’s permission, we can’t exactly tell them where they’re going. Try convincing a family to go to an unnamed country with promises of land they can’t see.”

Francisco hesitated, heat rising in his cheeks. “That’s a bit off. People who want to emigrate usually have nothing to lose. They’ll take the risk anyway—they’re already in a bad situation.”

The smugglers exchanged looks. “A hundred per adult and fifty per child,” said Domingo finally.

Francisco did the math in silence, the warm scent of tobacco curling between them as he thought. Then he nodded. “Fine. But you can’t mistreat them. I need workers who can produce, not half-dead people who’ll die once they reach New Granada.”

“Deal. Where will we make the transfer? I doubt you want to do it in Cartagena,” asked Aitor.

“The Gulf of Urabá,” said Francisco after a moment. “My family will have boats ready to take them through the Atrato or overland.”

“Good. And where do we get paid?” asked Domingo.

“In Antioquía,” said Francisco. “That way I can issue a letter of exchange or coins directly. You can open a store in Antioquía, Cartagena, or Bogotá to collect the payment.”

“We’ve got stores, though none in Antioquía,” said Domingo. “But we could open one for this deal. I’m seeing a fortune in the long run.”

“Agreed,” said the other three.

“Good,” said Francisco, though he looked a bit uneasy. “I won’t be in Antioquía for the next six years, so you’ll have to deal with my father. Be careful what you say about the Crown.”

Domingo smirked. “Don’t worry. We deal with high-class people all the time. We know what can and can’t be said.”

“Good. Now that the business is settled, why don’t we eat and drink to celebrate?” said Francisco, smiling.

“Cheers!” they answered, raising their cups.Glasses clinked, rum spilled across the table, and laughter rolled like thunder through the smoky air. The tavern reeked of sweat and cheap tobacco; the owner sent women to entertain them, their perfume cutting through the smoke.

Francisco only smiled and refused, though he listened with interest as the smugglers told stories—how they’d fought Spanish soldiers, or been stranded on a deserted island for months after a storm.

During a lull, Domingo leaned close, his voice low. Francisco caught the sharp tang of tobacco on his breath. “Be careful,” he whispered. “That Ramiro’s a petty pirate. He’s only a smuggler now because piracy doesn’t pay anymore. But he’s dangerous—robs merchants, kills when he can get away with it. No one’s stopped him yet.”

Francisco smiled and raised his voice so everyone could hear. “Don’t worry! I’ve already put a price on his head—and that offer still stands. Ten thousand pesos to whoever brings it to me. I don’t care what you do with his crew or ships.”

The tavern went quiet for a heartbeat, the sound of rain tapping the windows. The smugglers looked at one another—ten thousand pesos. This boy was either bold or mad. Then excitement flickered in their eyes; each man was already calculating what he could do with that fortune.

“Thanks for the drinks, young Francisco,” said Domingo, standing abruptly. “I just remembered some business. I’ll send men to your estate when I’ve gathered the people.” He left quickly, as if afraid to linger.

The other three soon followed, their laughter fading into the night. Francisco sat alone for a while, the silence heavy after the noise. Only the creak of the tavern sign outside answered him.

He paid the bill, tipped the women generously, and stepped into the cool night.

“Did anything happen while we were inside?” he asked one of his servants.

“The man who left first looked furious,” said the servant. “I’d suggest keeping an eye on him. The others looked excited—like they’d just found buried treasure.”

Francisco smiled faintly. “Not exactly wrong. Let’s head back to the estate—I need to talk with my father.”

When he returned, Francisco told his father everything, including the bounty. Carlos listened quietly, eyes narrowing a little at the number.

“I understand,” he said at last. “I’ll prepare a letter of exchange for ten thousand, if anyone comes to claim the bounty.”

“Now you’d better start preparing,” Carlos added. “In a few days, we return to Antioquía. We must get ready for your departure in March.”

“Yes, Father.” Francisco hesitated, then smiled softly. “We should spend the next few days together. You know—I’ll be gone for six years.”

Carlos’s expression softened. The smell of ink and candle wax filled the study, the quiet tick of a clock marking the moment. “Of course,” he said. “I’ve retired once before in Antioquía. I’ll tend to the industries, and you can pursue your science.”

“Yes, Father.”

Francisco left the room, and time passed quickly until the day of departure came again.

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