Chapter 78: The Hunt

After some time, they reached the edge of the forest. The horses were left outside under the watch of two servants, in case some thief tried to steal them. Then Francisco and the others stepped into the woods.

It was a dry tropical forest — the leaves had long since fallen, carpeting the ground in a thin layer of dust and brittle twigs. The air smelled faintly of resin and old bark. Here and there, green buds clung stubbornly to the branches, as if testing the patience of the dry season. The sun filtered through the sparse canopy, sharp and pale, turning the heat dry instead of suffocating.

Because the dry season still lingered, prey was scarce. The streams were nothing more than cracked beds of clay, and most of the mammals had moved elsewhere. The men’s boots crunched on fallen leaves as they walked for hours without spotting a single creature.

Francisco, tired and irritated, waved his hand to signal a rest. Sitting down on a rock, he sighed. “The hunter was right. We should have gone for ducks in the swamp. Hunting deer here is hopeless.”

A servant near him chuckled. “Young master, you should listen more to the experts. If we go now, we might still catch some ducks.”

Francisco nodded thoughtfully. “That may be the best choice. Wait—quiet.” He suddenly raised his hand. About four hundred meters ahead, a deer stood drinking from a muddy puddle — the last remnant of a short rain that had passed in late April.

He lifted his musket, holding his breath, the metal cool against his cheek. But one of his servants whispered, “It seems to be pregnant, young master.”

Francisco frowned and narrowed his eyes. Indeed, her belly was swollen. He hesitated, caught between the need to bring back prey and the quiet weight of conscience. At last, he lowered the weapon.

“Let’s go,” he said softly. “Even beasts don’t hunt their prey when they’re expecting. We shouldn’t be more barbaric than they are.”

The servants nodded, visibly relieved. Most of them were of mixed Indian blood, raised by parents or grandparents who still spoke of the forest with respect — as something alive, not just useful.

Unaware of her narrow escape, the deer drank peacefully, the sound of her tongue on the puddle faint but clear in the silence. Then she trotted away, her hooves leaving small, fragile prints in the dust.

After walking a while, Francisco turned to one of the men. “Tell me, Pedro — were you able to marry that servant girl from the Rodríguez estate?”

Pedro blushed under the sun. “Yes, young master. She finished her contract there and now lives with us on your estate.”

Francisco laughed. “When did that happen? I remember hearing about her after we reached Antioquia.”

“A year ago, sir,” Pedro replied. “And I’m not the only one. Most of us who grew up with you are already married. Some have children.”

Francisco widened his eyes, then smiled wistfully. “Is that so? It seems I’ve paid too little attention to your lives. I once promised to help you. Forgive me — I’ve been too focused on the factories.”

The servants shook their heads. One of them said, “Don’t worry, young master. Thanks to those inventions of yours, our families have work now. We earn more than before. Some of us even eat meat once a week — we live far better than most servants.”

Francisco nodded. He knew his father had always treated their people well. Many had been educated under his father’s school program and even helped to marry. He looked at them — men who had once been boys running through the Bogotá estate with him, barefoot, laughing, hiding between the stables and orchards. Now they were fathers, carrying their own burdens.

They talked and laughed as they walked back toward the horses. The sun was already leaning westward when they reached the swamp. The air there was heavier, sticky with moisture and the faint scent of rotting reeds. Ducks floated lazily on the green water, their feathers glinting under the late afternoon light.

Francisco smiled. “All right, boys. Here’s your chance. You can hunt some ducks and eat them at the inn. You’ll just have to convince the innkeeper to cook them for you. But find another patch of the swamp, or you’ll scare mine away.”

The servants grinned, their eyes gleaming. Though they were servants, the Gómez family paid them well enough to live decently. Still, eating duck was a luxury. Even if their wages placed them somewhere near the middle class, they couldn’t afford to eat duck whenever they pleased. To have the chance to hunt and taste it themselves was a rare gift — one that depended entirely on their own skill with the musket. The thought alone seemed to sharpen their senses; the smell of damp earth and gunpowder mingled in the air, promising a feast for those who earned it.

Francisco sent them off to hunt while he prepared for his own shot. The swamp shimmered under the light, but the water teemed with crocodiles — thick, gray shapes sliding under the surface. Shooting too close meant losing the prey to them.

He turned to one of his men. “When I give the word, fire toward the water.”

The servant nodded. Francisco aimed. “Now.”

The first shot missed. So did the next few. The gunpowder’s sharp smell hung in the air, mingling with the swamp’s earthy stench. At last, Francisco fired one clean shot, striking a duck far enough from the crocodiles to recover it safely. He exhaled, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Looking at the dark, motionless water, he felt a small chill. If they had waded any closer, they might have become prey themselves.

He carried the duck back to his horse and waited. Before long, the others returned with two more birds — enough for supper.

By the time they mounted again, the light was fading, and the first stars were trembling above the horizon. They rode quickly back toward the inn. Any more delay, and there would be no time left to prepare the dinner.

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