The Andes Dream

The next morning, Oscar woke early. He walked to the small wooden cross he had placed the night before and knelt briefly, making one last prayer. His faith had never been strong, but as a son of the colonies he had been raised within the Catholic tradition. And today, when his actions could very well decide whether he lived or died, seeking a bit of favor from the spiritual world did not seem like such a bad idea.

He sighed, looked under the bed, and pulled out the chestplate. He strapped it on as best he could, trying to hide it beneath his clothes. It was still slightly visible, and the agent noticed it, though he did not think much of it—perhaps he assumed it was simply a precaution against Spanish soldiers.

The agent prepared a solid breakfast for Oscar: a dark chocolate drink seasoned with cloves and cinnamon, giving it a rich, fragrant flavor; a generous portion of fresh cheese, traditionally dipped into the hot chocolate until it melted; a couple of almojábanas—those soft corn-and-cheese breads—and a warm bowl of rib broth, with a small slice of ham on the side.

After enjoying the sumptuous breakfast, Oscar, now wearing a solemn expression, walked with the agent toward the rendezvous point. At the entrance to Caracas, there was the usual morning traffic, forcing the caravan to wait while the other carriages cleared a path. It wasn't a long pause, but it was enough for Oscar.

Seeing the crowd gathering, the agent slapped Oscar lightly on the back and asked, "Are you ready?"

Oscar looked at him thoughtfully and nodded. Another man approached from behind and whispered something in the agent's ear. The agent nodded and said to Oscar, "Here it comes. Remember—we meet at the Guaire River. If you survive, of course."

And indeed, a large caravan appeared: around thirty soldiers escorting nearly forty carriages. It was a sight that drew the curiosity of the people of Caracas. Crowds gathered around, pointing at the convoy. While large caravans were not unheard of, one with forty carriages—escorted by thirty soldiers—was extremely rare, and the unusual spectacle made the soldiers uneasy. They fired shots into the air to keep the crowd orderly and prevent them from causing trouble.

Oscar murmured, "It's time." He took a tomato from his bag and threw it toward the Spanish soldiers. The unexpected gesture startled one of them, who panicked, raised his musket toward the crowd, and fired, causing a bystander to collapse to his knees. Chaos erupted. The officer in charge stormed toward the soldier and slapped him across the face, roaring:

"What the hell do you think you're doing? Do you think this is a joke—firing into a crowd?"

The rest of the soldiers also raised their muskets. While they were distracted, Francisco ran toward the rear of one of the caravans, the one carrying several barrels. He lifted the lid of one—it was half full of grain. Taking a deep breath, he slipped inside, curled up, and pulled the lid back over his head. Once hidden, he stayed perfectly still.

The agents dispersed into the crowd.

Chaos continued until the official city garrison arrived. The officers ordered civilians to clear the area. One of them knelt beside the fallen man, checked his pulse, and immediately frowned. He stood up and glared at the caravan soldiers.

"Are you insane? With tensions this high, you dare fire into a crowd? March straight to the Royal Warehouse. I want an explanation. And if it doesn't satisfy me, I'll send you to mine gold in Chocó. Maybe there you'll finally be useful to the empire."

The officer's face turned pale, already imagining the miserable conditions of the Chocó gold mines. He lowered his head, then shot the panicked soldier a resentful look.

"What are you waiting for? Move! Or do you expect us to carry you?" he barked.

Startled, the soldiers hurried to guide the carriages toward the warehouse.

At the entrance, the warehouse guards began inspecting the cargo. Francisco's barrel—which had been only half full—now appeared completely filled.

A soldier opened each container, counting material. When he reached Francisco's barrel, he lifted the lid, glanced inside, and grunted, "Full." Then he closed it again.

Outside, the officer frowned at the carriage conductor.

"It says here there were supposed to be five full barrels and one half-full. Why is my man telling me there are six full barrels?"

The conductor shrugged. "I don't know, sir. I don't write the manifest—I just drive."

The officer was about to question him further when another soldier stepped close and whispered:

"Sir… better leave it. Once we're inside, we can take half from that barrel and sell it. Make a bit of money. It wasn't our mistake—it was the port's."

The officer hesitated, but the soldier's eager look convinced him. He ordered the inspection redone and declared that one barrel was merely half full. Satisfied, the soldier allowed the carriage into the warehouse.

Inside, the Royal Warehouse loomed like a fortress—thick fired-brick walls, heavy beams, few windows, and those that existed barely letting in any natural light. At the far end, scaffolding hinted at ongoing renovations.

When the carriages finally came to a stop, the peons climbed down and began unloading under the half-hearted supervision of the soldiers, who didn't expect anyone to infiltrate.

Oscar waited for the perfect moment—then slipped out of the barrel, blending into the group of laborers. He moved as if he had always been part of the team. The warehouse was organized with tall shelves and massive wooden platforms where supplies were sorted and stored.

He picked up a sack and approached the supervising officer.

The man frowned and sniffed the air near Oscar.

"You have a… particular smell."

Oscar pretended to look embarrassed."Sorry, sir. After traveling so long, I haven't been able to take a proper bath."

The soldier frowned. "No, it's not sweat. It smells like grain. You didn't steal anything, did you?"

Another soldier behind him narrowed his eyes with suspicion.Oscar forced a helpless, frightened expression.

"It's not that, sir. A bag tore on the road and I had to recover all the spilled grain. Please believe me."

He made his voice tremble just enough. The soldier clicked his tongue.

"Search his pockets. And his clothes. I don't want him taking even a handful with him."

His companion stepped forward and began patting Oscar down, checking every pocket. While the second soldier was distracted receiving supplies from the other workers, Oscar seized the chance and slipped the key ring from the searching soldier's belt, hiding it smoothly under the sack he carried.

Finding nothing, the soldier finally waved him off.

"Go. And work properly."

Oscar bowed his head and backed away, then headed toward the carriages again, scanning the area for an opening to reach the armory. Soldiers were patrolling everywhere. For a moment, it seemed impossible—until he noticed a group of workers in simple linen clothing, their mouths covered with cloth. Powder handlers.

Oscar's eyes lit up.

He followed them at a distance until they reached a small separate building—isolated from the main warehouse. A lone soldier guarded the entrance, leaning against the wall, half-asleep. His duty was clearly to prevent anyone from carrying metal objects into the gunpowder section.

The workers approached and said, "We're here to leave our clothes."

The soldier grumbled, irritated at having been disturbed."Fine, go in. Change. And don't wake me when you come back out."

He shut his eyes again.

Oscar immediately stepped forward, imitating their tired posture."I'm here to pick up the clothes for my shift," he said, keeping his tone casual.

"I heard you the first time!" the soldier snapped without even opening his eyes. "Go, go. And stop bothering me. These kids won't let an old man sleep in peace…"

Oscar slipped inside quickly. He changed clothes, hiding his old ones deep in the pile, and when he emerged he truly looked like one of the powder workers—simple, dusty, and anonymous.

He approached the exit quietly, hoping to slip past without a word.

"Wait."

Oscar froze. Sweat slid down his back.

He turned slowly. "What do you need, sir?"

The soldier squinted at him, brows furrowed."The gunpowder section is the other way. Are you new?"

Oscar let out a controlled sigh, as if frustrated with himself.

"No, sir. My supervisor sent me to look for the captain first. I was told to find him before entering the section."

The soldier nodded, accepting the explanation with a grunt.

"Hmph. He should've told you that before changing, not after… These kids. Not too bright these days."He shook his head and closed his eyes again. "Go on."

Oscar bowed slightly and walked away, suppressing the urge to run.

Oscar let out a quiet breath of relief as he walked through the warehouse. Twice, soldiers stopped him, asking where he was going, and each time he answered with the same calm lie:"Looking for the captain."That was enough to make them wave him through.

He continued until he reached the offices. One of the guards inside straightened and called out:"Sir, that worker who said he was looking for you is here."

The captain turned, brows knitting in mild surprise at seeing Oscar so suddenly."What is it you need?"

Oscar felt sweat prickling at the back of his neck, but he forced his voice to remain steady."My supervisor said he needed to speak with you, sir… and that I was to bring you to him."

The captain's frown deepened."Wait here. I'll speak with the officer of the guard first, and then we'll both go."

A cold shiver ran down Oscar's spine. He realized, with a sudden and heavy certainty, that he had stepped into a far more dangerous situation than he had expected.