The voyage to Jamaica was tense. Having a frigate with seventy cannons shadowing your every move is not an experience anyone would call pleasant. When they finally reached the port, relief came mingled with frustration—most of the crew weren't allowed to disembark. In this colony, slavery was the law of the land, and for mestizos, stepping ashore was a risk. The British saw mixed blood as an inconvenient shade between master and slave.
Elizabeth appeared at Francisco and Catalina's small cabin, her tone brisk but kind."I'm going to speak with the governor of Jamaica. Do you want to come?"
Francisco hesitated. Catalina was much better now, though still a little weak. Part of him wanted to stay by her side, but curiosity tugged harder—he wanted to see how a British colony differed from the Spanish ones he knew.
Catalina, sensing his doubt, smiled softly. "You should go. Wasn't the whole purpose of this journey to learn about other cultures? This is your chance."
Francisco nodded, kissed her forehead, and stood. "Be careful. I'll be back soon."
Outside, the Caribbean sun struck like molten gold on the decks. Ramiro waited near the gangplank, overseeing a few sailors loading crates."I'll be buying supplies for the next leg of the trip," he said. "Be careful out there."
Francisco and Elizabeth nodded, then descended to the pier.
The port stunned Francisco. Men shouted in sharp English accents, ropes creaked, and the salty air mixed with the bitter tang of tar and rum. Everywhere he looked, people moved with almost mechanical precision—dockhands loading, clerks shouting tallies, officers inspecting manifests."Aren't they working too fast?" he asked, his voice carrying genuine astonishment.
Elizabeth followed his gaze and chuckled, a trace of pride slipping into her tone. "We didn't become a world power by being slow. Our ports run like clockwork—for better or worse."
Before Francisco could answer, a ship docked nearby. Shackled Africans were herded down the gangplank under the crack of whips. Their backs were raw, their eyes hollow. The humid air carried the sour smell of sweat, salt, and blood. Wealthy planters stood by, examining them like livestock.
Francisco's expression hardened. "Those are slaves from Africa, aren't they?"
Elizabeth nodded, her face tightening. "Yes. That, too, is part of our efficiency—cheap labor."
He watched as a British slaver struck a man who stumbled under his chains. "Now I understand," Francisco murmured, "why the Catholic Church calls itself morally superior. Even if they oppress our own natives, this… this is something else entirely. They don't see these people as human at all."
Elizabeth's voice turned cold. "To them, slaves are objects—like a chair or a barrel of rum. If one dies, they mourn the loss of money, not life."
They continued through the streets. Kingston was loud and chaotic, the air heavy with smoke and sugarcane. Francisco soon noticed something curious. "There are more black people here than white."
Elizabeth nodded. "That's right. Why do you mention it?"
"I just don't understand why they don't rise up," Francisco said quietly. "They outnumber the British, don't they?"
Elizabeth gave a short laugh, though her eyes stayed serious. "They could rebel, yes—but victory isn't just about the first battle. Once the revolt succeeds, what then? The British Navy would return with more troops, more ships. And when they do, their vengeance would be merciless—on the rebels and their families alike. That fear keeps most of them quiet. The few uprisings that happen end in blood."
Francisco frowned. "That's simply inhuman."
Elizabeth's gaze drifted over a group of red-coated soldiers marching past. "They aren't seen as human to begin with."
He fell silent. Words felt useless. The more they walked, the more the cruelty of the colony revealed itself—public whippings, the stench of sweat and sugar rotting under the sun, the hopeless faces of the enslaved. The brutality would haunt him long after he left Jamaica.
Near a restaurant, a group of ragged children waited outside, staring through the windows."What are they doing?" Francisco asked.
"They're waiting for scraps," Elizabeth said softly. As she spoke, a man inside tossed a piece of bread out the door, and the children fought over it like animals.
Francisco turned away. "Savage," he muttered. "I've always criticized Spain's oppression, but this…" He didn't finish. The words burned too much to say.
When they reached the governor's palace in Kingston—a grand building of coral stone and whitewashed pillars—Elizabeth adjusted her coat. "This used to be managed from Spanish Town," she explained. "But the administration's been moving here for years."
"I'll wait outside," Francisco said. "I doubt the governor wants to see me. I'll look around the market. Do they take Spanish pesos here?"
Elizabeth smiled. "Of course. The Spanish peso is one of the most common coins in the world. And here especially—they're short on British pounds."
Francisco nodded and made his way to the market. The smell of roasted coffee and rum hung thick in the air. He passed stalls of silver jewelry, carved ivory, and fine cloth. One store caught his eye—a fabric merchant displaying bolts of shimmering silk.
Francisco touched the cloth with awe. "This is silk? I've never seen any like it. It feels finer—stronger."
The merchant, not understanding, called for another trader nearby who spoke some Spanish. For a small coin, the man translated. "He says the silk comes from the East—from China."
Francisco's eyes lit up. "Chinese silk. Remarkable."
The merchant grinned. "Yes, sir. Imported and rare. Only nobles and rich merchants can afford it."
Francisco frowned. "How much?"
"Eight pesos a yard," the translator replied.
"Six," Francisco countered.
After some haggling, they settled on seven. Francisco bought five yards and left the shop pleased. As he walked around, a nearby café caught his attention—the sign read Blue Mountain Coffee. The aroma alone was enough to pull him closer.
He smiled faintly. "Let's see how it compares," he murmured, walking toward the café—when suddenly,
Boom.
A gunshot cracked through the humid air. The street froze. People turned their heads toward the sound. Near the edge of the square, a man lay on the ground—a slave—his blood dark against the sun-baked dust. His master still held the smoking pistol, shouting something no one dared answer.
Francisco stared. In Spain, even the most arrogant landowners would kill a slave in secret, somewhere far from the eyes of the town. There, such an act was still considered shameful, whispered about behind closed doors. But here… here it was done openly, without fear or hesitation.
He felt a chill crawl down his spine despite the Caribbean heat. Perhaps that's how they built their empire, he thought grimly. By never seeing blood as a stain, only as the price of power.
The crowd dispersed as if nothing had happened. The dead man was dragged aside like refuse. Francisco took a slow breath and stepped inside the café, the rich scent of roasted coffee almost masking the bitter taste of iron that lingered in the air.