Chapter 50: Cement rush

1791 September Province of Antioquia

The carriage rattled along until they reached the road leading to the Gómez estate. When Francisco saw it, he was speechless—the path was packed, even more than the last one.

Carlos frowned and gestured to a servant. “Go ask the carriage ahead why there are so many people.”

The servant hurried off and soon returned, wearing a confused expression, as if he didn’t quite know how to explain what he’d learned.

Carlos’ brow deepened. “What happened?”

“Master, it seems they’re all headed to the cement factory to buy cement,” the servant said hesitantly. “They come from different estates—builders, officials… even some merchants.”

Carlos blinked in surprise.

“How do they even know about the cement?” Francisco asked, puzzled. He had hoped the Bogotá project would act as publicity—but it hadn’t even started yet. The factory itself wasn’t finished; they were still producing cement from a small workshop just to have enough for construction.

“I’m not sure,” said the servant, scratching his neck. “But it seems one of the owners showed off the factory the young master built to some wealthy people and officials. When they heard it only took three or four months to complete using the cement, they were amazed. Now they all want to see it—and buy it for their own projects. They sent their men here to purchase as much as they can.”

“One of the owners?” Francisco murmured, frowning. “So either Mauricio or Sofía… maybe both. They must’ve brought those people and convinced them to buy. Interesting.”

Carlos chuckled, half in disbelief. “Finally, I can relax. You’ve got your own profits now—maybe you’ll stop emptying my wallet.”

Francisco laughed, slightly embarrassed. “Now we just have to figure out how the hell to reach the estate. At this pace, we won’t make it by nightfall.”

Carlos thought for a moment. “Send one of the horses ahead to the estate. Have them bring fresh horses and some people to take our place.”

“Yes, sir.” The servant mounted a horse and galloped away, dust rising behind him.

Francisco leaned back, watching the crowded road shimmering under the sun. “You know, Father, we should start paving the road ourselves. Now that we have cement, it’d be cheaper—and more efficient.”

“That’s a good idea,” Carlos said, glancing out at the busy path. “We should also hire more laborers to expand it. Once the Bogotá project succeeds, even more people will come to buy from us.”

“Though we’ll have to share the market with the Bogotá factory,” Francisco reminded him.

“That’s true,” Carlos admitted, “but remember—you’re not just producing cement. You’ve also got that alcohol business you promised your grandfather. You can’t go back on your word.”

“Right. I almost forgot,” Francisco said with a smirk. “I think the next industries I’ll build will be near the town—maybe in Medellín or Santa Fe de Antioquia.”

“I still don’t understand why you built this one on our estate,” Carlos said, puzzled.

“Because, first, I wasn’t sure it would even work—and neither were you,” Francisco replied. “Besides, with all the slave labor being used around here, I couldn’t just build houses for them in town. Too expensive, and not worth the trouble of sending food every day.” He sighed. “Honestly, slavery sucks.”

Carlos snorted. “You say that because your industries can’t use slaves effectively. For plantation owners like us, slaves are the best labor there is.”

“That may be true,” Francisco said proudly, “but your plantations don’t produce as much profit as my factories.”

Carlos smirked. “Maybe not—but how long can you keep those profits? There are other volcanoes, and sooner or later, you’ll face competition. Who knows how much you’ll make then?”

Francisco opened his mouth to argue, but Catalina’s voice interrupted them.

“All right, you two children,” she said with a smile as wide as her face. “This isn’t a competition. You should both be happy we’re finally making money.”

Francisco chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a bit sheepish.

“Father,” he said after a pause, “during the six years we’ll be away, you should use the opportunity to make contacts in Venezuela and Quito—and maybe even in the Viceroyalties of Peru and Río de la Plata. If that’s not possible, sell the recipe. They’re too far to manage directly, and their governments might seize the business if we partner with locals. Better to sell it while it’s valuable.”

Carlos nodded thoughtfully. “Understood. But what are you going to do with all that money? By my count, you could earn seven to eight hundred thousand pesos—maybe more once the Bogotá factory starts.”

“Spend it,” Francisco said without hesitation. “As much as possible. Try not to leave too much behind.”

Carlos blinked, incredulous. “Spend it? Are you joking? You should save money, not waste it.”

Francisco sighed. “I’m serious. The amount’s too large, and I’m afraid one day the Viceroy might decide to take it—or even our factories. It’s safer to invest everything in Antioquia. Half goes to the Lozano and Alonzo families, of course. Keep two hundred thousand for the immigrants—we’ll need funds to bring them. Set aside a small amount for emergencies and use the rest for roads or whatever else you need. That way, if the Viceroy ever gets greedy, there’ll be nothing left to seize.”

Carlos stared at him, speechless. “Fine,” he said at last. “Though I doubt the Viceroy would dare, given the interests involved.”

“Maybe,” Francisco said quietly. “But remember—the Alonzo and Lozano families won’t always be on our side. If they ever side with the Viceroy, we’d be finished.”

Carlos frowned but nodded. “You’re right. I’ll keep that in mind. What about the profits from the alcohol?”

“Buy more land in Antioquia,” Francisco said with a shrug. “Become a proper landlord. I don’t really care, as long as it strengthens our holdings.”

Carlos smiled. “At least you’ve got some sense. Fine.”

They spent the next hour talking until the fresh horses arrived. Francisco and Carlos mounted up and galloped ahead, leaving the carriage behind. Dust trailed through the warm air as they rode toward the estate.

A well-dressed man from one of the front carriages watched them pass. “Who are they?” he asked.

His servant went to inquire and soon returned. “Master, those are Carlos and Francisco Gómez—the owners of the Gómez estate. They left their servants behind and rode ahead because of the crowded road.”

“What? I missed my chance?” the man exclaimed, frustrated. “If I’d known, I would’ve spoken with them. They might’ve let me buy more cement—I’ve heard supply’s already running short.”

“What should we do?” asked his servant.

“Talk to their men. Offer them some coins—I want to know what that family likes. Maybe a well-chosen gift will open doors.”

“Yes, sir.” The servant departed, and the man looked toward the long line of carriages with a cunning smile. “At least no one else knows they work for the Gómez family,” he murmured. “That gives us an advantage.”

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