The Andes Dream

The aide curled his lips in frustration. "Sir, they already hold that position. The Spanish Empire has even granted them the noble title of cacique. It isn't so easy to undermine their authority."

Carlos sighed, rubbing his temple. "So our only option is to fight them?"

The aide nodded helplessly. "That's right, sir. If you truly want to build a new nation, you must first defeat those indigenous groups who benefited from Spanish rule. There is no other way."

Carlos took a slow, steady breath. For a moment, the distant sounds of Medellín filtered through the open windows—the rhythmic clatter of tools from the workshops below, the faint smell of gunpowder drifting from the armory. Then his eyes lit up.

"Wait," he said. "The title of cacique benefits only the leader. The people beneath him don't necessarily share in that privilege—especially the younger ones. Think about our own movement. It's the younger generation that supports independence, because they are more ambitious, less willing to accept the old order."

The aide frowned slightly, listening.

"If we can win over the younger indigenous," Carlos continued, his voice gaining strength, "and offer them the chance to rise through merit instead of blood, many of them may follow us."

The aide considered this, then slowly nodded. "You're right, sir. I've heard there have been constant disputes between the young men and their caciques. They resent having part of their labor taken as tribute. The elders may oppose change, but they wouldn't dare move openly against their own youth—doing so would be as dangerous as fighting us."

A wide smile spread across Carlos's face.

"Then this is where we begin," he said. "First, spread rumors. Let it be known that the Spanish Crown intends to seize my industries—and that the cacique of San Lorenzo supports them in this effort. If I'm not mistaken, many indigenous youths already work in our factories here in Medellín. Once they hear this, they'll return to their tribes and let the story spread on its own."

He paused, fingers drumming lightly against the wooden table.

"After that," he said softly, "we speak of new industries, new opportunities, and—"

Carlos fell silent.

The aide waited. One minute passed. Then another. The only sound was the flutter of papers stirred by the evening breeze. After nearly ten minutes, the aide could no longer hold his tongue.

"Sir… is everything all right? You didn't finish your thought."

Carlos blinked, then spoke slowly, as if recalling something precious.

"Francisco once told me about something he learned in Göttingen. A concept the Germans call a Credit Institution—more specifically, a Provident Bank. A Sparkasse, they call it."

The aide raised an eyebrow.

"He wrote that in Prussia, they're beginning to understand something important," Carlos continued. "A nation's strength does not lie in the king's vaults, but in the hands of its workers."

Carlos leaned forward, his voice firm now.

"If we offer these young Aburráes small loans—just enough to buy their own tools, looms, or mining equipment—they will no longer be mere tributaries of the Crown. They will become independent producers. Entrepreneurs."

He smiled faintly.

"And once their prosperity is tied to us… their loyalty will be as well."

"The Spanish Crown offers them protection in exchange for submission," Carlos said calmly. "I will offer them credit in exchange for their future. It is the most effective way to dismantle the cacique's authority without firing a single shot. We don't just need soldiers, Antonio—we need a generation that owes its success to the New Nation, not to a distant king."

"A… credit system?" the aide replied, momentarily stunned.

His mind raced ahead, already grasping the implications. This was not merely an attack on the caciques—it was a blow aimed at the very foundations of Spanish control. And yet, it also meant surrendering a powerful source of revenue. He could not help but voice the doubt growing in his chest.

"Are you certain, sir?" he asked carefully. "You know how much money—and control—you give up by doing this."

Carlos smiled, not dismissively, but knowingly.

"I understand perfectly," he said. "The caciques already operate a form of credit. They loan tools, seed, or livestock, and in return they claim a portion of the production—whether in crops or minerals. The Spanish Crown does the same, only more cruelly."

He leaned back, folding his hands.

"They impose interest—five percent—for the rest of the debtor's life. Even after the original debt is repaid, the interest remains. Add royal taxes on top of that, and you can imagine how deeply the people are buried."

Carlos's eyes hardened.

"We will offer something different. A loan with minimal interest—only until the debt is fully paid. Or no interest at all, at least here in Medellín and the surrounding valleys, until the war is over."

The aide hissed softly between his teeth. "Sir… that's dangerously effective. If this works, no one will ever want to return under Spanish rule again. Not the common people, at least. The elites might—but without the commons, they are nothing."

Carlos's gaze turned cold.

"They chose to cause trouble," he said quietly. "Then we will trouble them properly."

He stood and turned toward the window, where the glow of forges flickered against the night sky.

"Send the order," Carlos continued. "We are opening the bank. And prepare the armory. Begin producing steel tools immediately."

He paused, thinking aloud.

"I've heard the metallurgists found a method to increase steel output by fifteen percent. It won't be enough for all of New Granada—not even for all of Medellín—but it will be enough to free the indigenous from dependency."

He turned back to the aide.

"Give them priority access."

The aide bowed and turned to leave, but hesitation stopped him at the door.

"Sir… we are beginning to run short on money again. We've managed to sell some of our production through Spanish territory without drawing attention, but the bribes alone are cutting deeply into our margins. And your brother—given the situation—will almost certainly change the terms of the next sale."

Carlos raised an eyebrow.

"You're right," he admitted. "My brother is not my father. He won't support me out of family loyalty once he understands what's happening in Antioquia. He'll lower prices—or refuse to buy altogether."

Carlos fell silent for a moment, weighing options like pieces on a board.

"Then we sell elsewhere," he said at last. "Contact the Portuguese slavers. They won't pay Spanish prices, but they can distribute the goods across South America. Lower profit is better than no profit at all."

His expression hardened once more.

"For now, survival comes before dignity."

The aide nodded. "But who should we contact?"

Carlos answered without hesitation. "Go to the slave house across from the church. They already have dealings with us. They may be willing to help—especially now, with a war brewing. After all, who is going to buy slaves in the middle of a conflict? Who knows," he added coldly, "perhaps this chaos will even cleanse them."

The aide bowed and departed.

Left alone, Carlos stared into the distance, his gaze cold and unwavering. What he was doing was not merely maneuvering within the Spanish system—it was cutting into it, deep enough to make it bleed. A feudal order so brittle, so dependent on inherited authority and perpetual debt, did not deserve to survive the modern age that was dawning.

He turned toward his desk, cluttered with letters and books sent by Francisco from Göttingen. Treatises on political economy, notes on credit institutions, discussions of productivity and labor. Carlos gathered them carefully and began to read. Perhaps within those pages lay answers to future crises—answers Spain itself had never bothered to seek.

The aide proved extremely efficient.

By the afternoon, all of Medellín was buzzing with rumors about the Gómez family. Whispers spread through workshops, markets, and taverns: the Spanish Crown intended to seize the alcohol distilleries and the Roman cement factories, dismantle them, and relocate production to Cartagena, where Spanish merchants would sell the goods at lower prices for imperial profit.

The rumors struck a nerve.

Young indigenous men and mestizos had walked days to reach Medellín, drawn by wages higher than any hacienda could offer. The Gómez industries paid in silver, not in promises. Entire families had risen from bare subsistence because of those workshops—bricklayers, kiln workers, mixers, carriers. For many, it was the first time labor had meant advancement rather than survival.

Now they were being told it would all be taken away.

Worse still, word spread that the unrest in the surrounding valleys—the raids, the sabotage, the attacks on supply lines—was being carried out by tribes acting in favor of the Spanish Crown, seeking to weaken the Gómez family and force submission.

Anger followed fear.

Young indigenous workers abandoned the forges and vats, returning to their villages with resentment burning in their chests. They did not arrive quietly. They argued, accused, demanded explanations. In tribe after tribe, the calm balance of obedience cracked.

The unrest was not large—but it was enough.

No one felt it more keenly than the cacique of the Aburráes.

For years, he had extracted tribute from his people while allowing the restless youth to leave for Medellín. Their absence had brought stability: fewer challengers, fewer disputes. Their wages flowed back to the tribe, paying tribute without resistance.

But now those same young men returned—angry, articulate, and emboldened by the taste of independence. They no longer bowed as easily.

Inside the great longhouse of San Lorenzo, the air was thick with tobacco smoke, sweat, and fear. Oil lamps cast flickering shadows across the wooden beams. At the head of the gathering stood Don Mateo Chavarriaga, the cacique, dressed in his finest black silk coat, its foreign fabric a symbol of his favor with the Crown.

He struck the dirt floor three times with his silver-topped cane.

"Silence!" Mateo roared. "We are not a rabble of peasants—we are the authorities of San Lorenzo!"

Outside, the voices of the youth echoed through the night. Dozens had gathered, men hardened by factory labor rather than the fields. They shouted not in rage alone, but in desperation.

They believed the rumors.

They believed the King meant to starve them.

"They say the Crown will take the cement workshops," whispered an old alguacil, his voice shaking. "They say production will move to the coast, sold cheaper by Spaniards. If Medellín closes, our sons will have no silver. How will we pay the tribute then?"

Mateo's jaw tightened.

"It is a lie," he said sharply. "A poison spread by that rebel, Carlos."

But even as he spoke, doubt crept into his voice.

"The people believe it," another elder murmured. "And everyone knows about the attacks in recent weeks. If we deny it now, they will only think we are hiding something."

Mateo clenched his cane.

He understood the danger immediately. Authority was not lost when challenged by force—it was lost when belief faded. And belief, once broken, was nearly impossible to restore.

Outside, the voices grew louder.

For the first time in many years, Don Mateo felt something unfamiliar settle into his chest.

Fear.