The voyage was expected to last two weeks—short, considering how close Cartagena was to Jamaica. Halfway through the journey, Elizabeth—who still went by Mauricio while dressed in men's clothes—walked down the narrow corridor toward Francisco and Catalina's cabin.
Catalina had spent most of the voyage asleep, overcome by seasickness. Elizabeth knocked softly and peeked inside.
"Is she still asleep? How much has she vomited? Poor girl," she asked.
Francisco nodded, gently dabbing Catalina's forehead with a damp cloth. "She's in a bad way. I never thought she'd suffer from seasickness. Most of what she eats ends up in the ocean. I've been giving her only soup—it helps a little, but honestly, she's miserable."
Elizabeth watched as he tended to Catalina with quiet care. A flicker of envy crossed her face. "She's a lucky girl," she murmured.
Francisco looked up. "Why do you say that?"
Elizabeth hesitated. "You really don't know, do you? How many men would clean up after their wives when they're at their worst? Most men think tending to a husband is a woman's duty. They wouldn't dream of returning the favor."
Francisco frowned thoughtfully. "Really? In Spain, it's not uncommon for men to care for their wives—though, to be fair, many simply run away from the duty. Still, there are plenty who don't."
She studied his eyes, realizing he wasn't lying. "So Spaniards are that considerate of their wives?"
He shrugged. "I don't know about the high-born. But among common folk—farmers, laborers—yes. It's not a matter of race but of class. I'm sure there are British men like me, too."
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "But you belong to the upper class in New Granada, don't you? Shouldn't you be an example of Spain's elite?"
Francisco chuckled. "You've got the wrong idea about my family. By title, we're considered high-ranking. But in manners and upbringing, we're closer to the mestizos than to the Creole elites. My father was a bastard son of a noble Spaniard—ignored by the legitimate heir and despised by the official wife. Maybe you've seen that sort of thing in Britain."
Elizabeth nodded. "Yes, though most bastards I've known turned into playboys, troublemakers—or worse."
Francisco gave a short laugh, then sighed. What kind of life has this girl lived to speak like that?
"My father wasn't like that," he said softly. "His mother wanted him to live a good life far from Spain, so he came to the colonies. He raised my sister Isabella and me alongside the servants' children. He didn't want us growing up arrogant, like those lonely heirs who play only with other nobles and learn to crush the weak. Growing up among the servants taught us empathy. It's why we don't care about whiteness or blackness."
Elizabeth frowned, intrigued. "Your family is truly unusual in this world. Which brings me to something I must tell you—and the captain—before we reach Jamaica."
Francisco noticed her hesitation. Whatever it was, she was ashamed to say it. He nodded. "All right. Let me wake Catalina and tell her I'll be gone for a bit."
He turned to the bed and knelt beside Catalina's pale face. Brushing a loose strand of hair away, he whispered, "Wake up, sleepyhead."
Her lashes fluttered before she opened her eyes and smiled weakly. "How long was I asleep?"
"Not long. I need to go with Elizabeth to the captain's cabin—she has something to tell us. I'll lock the door behind me. The bucket's clean; I washed it this morning. If you feel sick again, it's right beside the bed."
Catalina blushed faintly and nodded. "Thank you. I'll try to sleep a little more."
He kissed her forehead before leaving, locking the door carefully. A ship full of men was no place to take risks.
Elizabeth and Francisco climbed the creaking stairs to the upper deck. The salty air whipped around them, carrying the smell of tar, hemp, and brine. The captain's office was cramped and smelled of damp wood and tobacco. Francisco's cabin was the second best on the ship—but the captain's own had been "borrowed" by Elizabeth. The poor man had been sleeping in his office ever since, forced to pretend everything was normal so no one would suspect her true identity.
Inside, one of Francisco's men—sent along by his father—was already waiting. Elizabeth took the captain's chair as the captain himself entered last, closing the door behind him.
"All right, gentlemen," she began. "We're about a week from Jamaica, and there are things you must know before we arrive."
The men exchanged puzzled looks but stayed silent.
Elizabeth sighed. "I'm ashamed to say my country's hierarchy is even worse than Spain's. In Jamaica, there are only two kinds of people—the whites, and everyone else." Her gaze lingered on Francisco's mestizo companions and the first mate. "Once we dock, I strongly advise you to stay aboard. Let Francisco and Captain Ramiro handle the procurement of supplies. The caste system there is brutal. If any of you go ashore, you might find yourselves in serious trouble. If there are any white men among your crew who aren't pure Europeans, they can pass as Spaniards. Most British can't tell the difference."
Francisco frowned. "Is it really that bad?"
Elizabeth gave a dry laugh. "Worse than you think. I'll need to deliver a letter to the governor, and Captain, be ready—the British navy patrols these waters. We'll likely meet them before we reach port. When you do, lower the sails and let them approach. I'll handle the talking."
Captain Ramiro's face darkened. The voyage was proving far more dangerous than expected. Still, being white, he wouldn't draw suspicion.
Elizabeth continued, her tone grave. "Make sure everyone understands this. I won't be able to protect anyone who disobeys. If someone is taken as a slave in Jamaica, I can do nothing for them."
The room fell silent. The men exchanged uneasy glances before nodding. Francisco returned to care for Catalina, while Ramiro and his first mate spread the warning through the crew. The sea outside groaned against the hull, whispering of the peril that waited on the horizon.