Chapter 52: Learning of steel

When Francisco reached the forge the air hit him—hot metal, coal smoke, and the metallic tang of iron. Sparks flew with every strike; the floor trembled under the rhythm of hammers.

Ogundele was bent over an anvil, shaping what looked like a heavy hoe for the plantation. Nearby, Makala hammered shorter blades, each swing too fierce for mere practice—his old hunger for battle hadn’t faded. Kokou stood to the side like an apprentice, watching Ogundele’s hands with intent concentration. When he noticed Francisco he straightened and called out, “Young master—you’re back.”

Francisco nodded at Kokou, then called, “Ogundele. Makala.”

Ogundele wiped sweat from his brow and, as always, raised the same request. “Young master, can you get more aguardiente? The reserves they send me are too small.”

Francisco smiled. “That depends on the alambique. Once we run our own distillery, you’ll have more.”

Ogundele’s chest puffed with a bold arrogance. “If you want, we can go now and see. The problem is manpower. You’re going to need more hands—slaves or servants.”

The word stung. Francisco’s jaw tightened; the thought of relying on more bondage frustrated him. He swallowed and said softly, “I’ll deal with manpower. For now we may have to hire more slaves.”

Ogundele simply nodded; he knew the island of choices was small.

“Makala,” Francisco asked after a moment, “have you decided to stay and work for me?”

Makala’s bitter smile said more than words. “Do I have a choice? I have no money, no allies here. Trying to go back to Africa would hand me to slavers again. Even if I made it, I would have no future there. Here, at least, I can count on your help.”

Francisco felt the weight of that and said nothing.

“All right—let’s go see the alambiques. I want to test my upgrades,” he said, eager.

With Kokou’s help and a long pole, Ogundele led the way to the distillery. The factory smelled of dust and stale sugar: the building had been idle while Francisco was in Bogotá, but things were orderly—separate rooms for each stage of the process and, most important, the tall distillation tower. The tower promised continuous runs; its height hinted at purer distillate.

“Have you tried it?” Francisco asked, looking around the empty space.

“Of course not,” Ogundele grumbled. “We’re servants. We can’t order the butler to let us use it. We tried asking, but he refused without you or your father’s permission.”

Francisco flushed. “I should’ve arranged that. Now that I’m here, let’s prove it.” He called a servant to fetch sugarcane and wood for a test batch. If the tower worked as he hoped, they could produce much stronger aguardiente.

“I’ll pay a reward for useful upgrades,” Francisco told the three blacksmiths. “Anything that raises purity or output—we’ll pay well.”

The men exchanged uncertain looks. It was Ogundele who finally spoke.”Maybe it’s the heat, boy—the temperature.”

Francisco tilted his head. “Temperature?”

Ogundele nodded, tapping his temple with a soot-stained finger. “When forging a good blade, the fire must breathe steady. Too hot and the iron burns; too cold and it won’t yield. The masters who can keep the heat constant make the finest steel. If that’s true for the forge, maybe it’s also true for your still.”

Francisco paused, then nodded. “You may be right. Distillation also depends on precise temperatures—the moment the vapors change can decide purity. In Europe they use a device called a thermometer, one that traps quicksilver—inside glass to measure heat.”

Kokou frowned. “Quicksilver in glass? That sounds like alchemy.”

Francisco smiled faintly. “Perhaps. But I’ve read it’s common in France and Prussia. If I can find one in Hanover, I’ll buy several.”

Ogundele raised an eyebrow. “And what do you want me to do with it?”

“Study it,” Francisco said, his voice low with purpose. “If you can find a way to fit it into the still, so the temperature remains constant, you’ll earn a proper reward. I’ll be away in Hanover soon, and while I’m gone, I want you to lead the work on this improvement. Keep it quiet, but if it works… we may have the purest aguardiente in New Granada.”

“Then I’ll try, boy. With more money, I can buy more alcohol… and maybe even drink to your success.”

Francisco chuckled, shaking his head. “Just don’t drink all the profits before I return.”

After a while, some servants arrived with bundles of sugar cane. While they prepared the still, Francisco drew the blacksmiths a little apart, out of earshot of the others.

“There’s something else I want to try—steel. Have you heard of it?”

Ogundele frowned. “I’ve heard servants talk about it at the estate, yes—but I never really understood what it was.”

“It’s harder iron, made with a more careful process. Finished blades sometimes had a bluish sheen.” Francisco’s eyes shone. “If we could replicate it—on our scale—we might command the best steel market in South America.”

Ogundele’s face lit with hunger. “I can make hard iron—small batches. Not in volumes, but I know the craft.”

Francisco felt hope surge. If Ogundele could show him the basics, and the book he carried supplied theory, they might begin something remarkable.

But Ogundele hesitated. “Boy, that knowledge is dangerous. The whole process—from ore to charcoal to furnace—takes days. Masters guard it. Sharing it could mean ruin.”

Francisco stepped forward, earnest. “Ten thousand pesos. Use it when you’re free—buy land, set your family up. Think of it as your price for teaching me.”

Ogundele brightened at the amount. He had heard how far a few pesos went—an ordinary servant’s wage might be thirty to fifty pesos a month—so ten thousand promised a very different life. He exchanged a look with Kokou. “I’ll show you—but I’ll need Kokou’s hands. My legs don’t hold me like they used to.”

Kokou’s face went serious. “I want to learn. My old master planned to teach me but couldn’t before the city fell.”

“I’ll teach you in his place,” Ogundele said, smiling.

Makala watched with a tight envy; he too knew the basics of steel but learning from one of Ogundele’s lineage—one of the great smiths from home—was different. Francisco met Makala’s gaze but kept quiet; the ten thousand pesos sealed the deal, and he couldn’t spare more.

“Once we understand the process,” Francisco said, “we’ll go to the mountains. There I want a small laboratory to test ways to scale production—only if the experiments work.”

“Behind the mountains?” Makala asked.

Francisco shrugged. “This will run against the Crown’s monopoly. Just as African smiths hide technique, the Crown guards its secrets. Better to hide our testing.”

Makala’s brow rose. “Aren’t you afraid the Crown will learn and punish us?”

Francisco let out a rueful laugh. “If they knew we were only trying to copy their steel, they’d probably scoff. But worse—if they thought we’d ruin a master’s reputation, someone might die for it. Risk comes from both sides.”

Makala’s eyes narrowed. “So your masters are no better than the Portuguese.”

Francisco started to answer—then realized the argument would take him nowhere. He wished he could explain the difference: the Portuguese treated people like disposable tools; the Spanish saw them as men of low status but not quite disposable. It was a subtle cruelty, and hard to make clear in a single exchange.

Ogundele steered the conversation back. “About iron—where do we get ore?”

Francisco’s face fell. “We’d like to mine, but there are no unowned deposits. The mines are already claimed. For now we’ll have to buy iron.”

Ogundele shrugged a weary acceptance. “Very well. Give me what you can. We’ll start small.”

“Good. Get ready. Maybe this weekend we can begin,” Francisco said with a smile.

Just then, one of the servants called out that the still was ready for a trial run. The four men turned toward it, the faint hiss of steam rising as they gathered around the gleaming copper coils.

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