Chapter 57: Father and Son

After settling matters with Grandpa Ogundele and Grandma María, Francisco returned to the Factory building. He spent hours experimenting with the alcohol, searching for the perfect proportions to enhance the old brews with the new ones. He tried different fruits—lemon, grapefruit, lime, pineapple, and guava. To his surprise, guava only worked when he used the entire fruit, especially the pulp. Bananas, mangoes, and papayas, however, failed miserably, which only deepened his curiosity. Still, with little time left before his departure, he moved on to herbs, spices, and even odd combinations—like guava with cinnamon.

In the end, his favorite blend was orange and cinnamon, a warm and fragrant mix that reminded him of the sunny orchards of Antioquia. Knowing that Spanish markets preferred anise, he tested that as well. Eventually, he created three official new flavors, leaving his father with written instructions for further experiments and notes on how to test new varieties based on market reactions.

Once everything was ready, he decided to spend a few peaceful days with his father, his little sister, and Catalina.

A few days later, Francisco asked Catalina to accompany him to Villa de Medellín. He wanted to observe the people, see how they lived—and let them taste his new alcohol. Although the Crown had forbidden him from selling it, the decree said nothing about giving it away. He brought several barrels of various flavors, some he found delightful and others nearly revolting, but he wanted people to choose freely. He wouldn’t oversee the tasting himself—that was his father’s responsibility. Francisco simply wanted to watch the reactions.

Carlos oversaw the carriages loaded with barrels bound for Medellín. The road, once crowded with wagons carrying Roman cement, was now only slightly less busy.

“We need to hurry before the road fills up again!” Carlos shouted to the servants.

The yard bustled with life—men shouting instructions, horses snorting, and the clatter of barrels echoing against the cobblestones. It was chaotic, but strangely well-ordered, like a colony of ants.

Francisco approached his father and handed him a cigar, something Carlos often enjoyed when stressed.

Carlos took a deep puff and sighed. “Thanks, son. But are you really leaving all this to an old man like me? Why not let that girl, Catalina, handle a few things? It’d give me some peace.”

Francisco grinned. “Can’t do. We’re going together to spend some time. Ogundele told me I should enjoy small moments with her whenever I can.”

Carlos gave a mock frown. “Lucky you. Still, I’m grateful we invested in teaching the servants and their children to read, write, and do math. Without that, running this place would be a nightmare.”

Francisco chuckled. “True. If we had to hire literate workers, we’d only find them among the criollos or the Spaniards, and they’d be expensive—and harder to control.”

Carlos nodded, glancing at the smiling servants. “Exactly. Honestly, if not for the high salaries and the way we treat them, other families would’ve poached them by now. I’ve even heard that some, like the Castros, tried bribing one of our men to sabotage the cement factory.”

Francisco’s eyes narrowed. “So the families are starting to move against us?”

Carlos let out a short laugh. “Not most of them. The majority wouldn’t dare—not with those two powerful families backing us. But a few who cling to the Church’s influence have been stirring trouble. I even heard the bishop wants to monopolize Roman cement under the Church’s name.”

Francisco snorted. “They might’ve had a chance if they’d asked the Crown or the Viceroy to control it. But the Church? That’s laughable.”

Carlos agreed. “The Church doesn’t want to make the Crown stronger, so their only option was to propose a ’holy industry’—claiming it would help the poor by building houses for them.”

Francisco rolled his eyes. “Ridiculous. Roman cement costs a fortune—almost a luxury item! Only workshops or rich estates can afford it. The poor can’t even dream of using it for homes.”

Carlos chuckled. “Everyone knows that now. The bishop became a laughingstock. His advisers probably saw our profits and rushed to report without checking prices. He made a grand speech about helping the poor and building churches, and the room burst out laughing.”

Francisco shook his head. “Sometimes I truly don’t understand how their minds work.”

Carlos smiled faintly. “Well, it means your Roman cement has reached the higher circles. The Viceroy even recommended giving you the title of Naturalista Mayor, like José Celestino Mutis.”

Francisco’s eyes widened. That title came with privileges and prestige that could shape his future research. “What did they say?”

Carlos shrugged. “Who knows? By the time you’re in Germany, maybe there’ll be an answer. But honestly, I doubt they’ll grant it.”

“Why not?” Francisco asked.

“You’re too young,” Carlos said simply. “The royal family in Spain can’t grasp the value of your cement from a few reports. Maybe in a few years, when it reaches the mainland and they see it themselves, they’ll change their minds. For now, expect rejection.”

Francisco nodded slowly, watching as the last barrels were loaded. “Maybe you’re right.”

At that moment, Catalina and little Isabella approached. “We’re ready,” Catalina said.

Francisco turned and smiled. “Oh, little Isabella’s coming too?”

“That’s right, big brother!” Isabella declared proudly. “Catalina’s going to have you all to herself for years, so this time you’re mine!”

Francisco looked helplessly at Catalina, who shrugged with a small smile. “She’s right,” she said.

A servant hurried over. “Everything’s ready, master.”

Carlos nodded, and the four climbed into the carriage. The road remained busy with wagons carrying cement, slowing their progress.

“Father,” Francisco said thoughtfully, “why don’t we build a warehouse in Villa de Medellín and ship the cement there first? It’d clear up this road a bit.”

Carlos considered it. “A good idea. But I’ll need to speak with the mayor about buying the land. You could take the chance to talk to him yourself.”

Francisco sighed. “Fine, I’ll speak with him while we are there.”

They continued their journey, and when they finally reached Medellín, the town was livelier than ever—crowded streets, merchants shouting, the scent of roasted maize and tanned leather thick in the air. It was clear that the cement factory had transformed the place; people now came not only to trade, but to dine, rest, and stock up on supplies before returning home. More people meant more business, and the townsfolk were quietly building their own little fortunes.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep