1791 May
A few months before Francisco left for Bogotá, Óscar—who recovered at Francisco's estate—decided to head to the capital.
beside the magdalena river he found a boatman and asked"Mister, can you take me to Honda?" He looked different: his head had been shaved, leaving only unruly facial hair. He seemed almost like a new man—worn, a little ragged, and oddly out of place in his good clothes. The boatman regarded him with a wary eye.
"I can take you for five pesos," the boatman said, "but I charge an extra peso for every extra cargo item."
"How much for the whole boat? I have some cargo to move," Óscar asked, frowning.
"Fifteen pesos," the boatman answered.
Óscar counted out the coins and handed over fifteen pesos, then motioned for men to carry his cargo aboard. The boatman's face betrayed some greed as he watched the bag.
"Excuse me, sir—I'll go say goodbye to my family," the boatman said politely, then left.
"Sure, go," Óscar replied outwardly calm, but he watched the boatman's retreating back with a cold vigilance. , Óscar murmured under his breath, "I hope you're not planning what I suspect—otherwise don't blame me." Then he turned back to his cargo.
Once aboard and drifting downriver, small talk started.
"So—where are you headed, sir?" the boatman asked.
"To Bogotá," Óscar said casually. "I have friends there interested in goods from Antioquia."
"Oh, Bogotá! The capital's a big place. I've heard thousands live there," the boatman said with forced cheer. "And what's your trade, if I may ask?"
"I work for the viceroy," Óscar replied lightly. "Handling this and that." He dropped the name as if it were nothing, hoping it would plant enough fear to keep greedy thoughts at bay.
The boatman froze for a moment, then forced a laugh and looked away, masking something behind a show of calm. Óscar caught the stubborn glint in his eye — the kind that said he wouldn't be easily shaken. His mood soured. When the man tried to keep the conversation going, Óscar answered only in curt, single words.
He began watching the riverbanks more closely now, scanning both sides as if expecting something—or someone—to appear.
A short distance upstream, a pigeon flapped into a patch of scrub and delivered a note to a ragged camp. A badly dressed bandit, whose clothes seemed never to have known a wash, snatched the message and read it.
He sprinted toward the firepit where the gang's leader sat—a hard-eyed man surrounded by the wreckage of last night's violence. Smoke clung to him like a second skin. Around him, the spoils of cruelty lingered: broken weapons, frightened women staring into nothing, and the silent bodies of those who'd crossed him.
"Boss," one bandit said, "the merchants we hit yesterday had only food and a few pesos. Not enough to last the winter."
The leader's expression was hard. "Most rich merchants don't travel alone," he said. "We're only ten men. We pick targets who move alone. That's all we can handle."
Banditry was not lucrative here. The countryside was sparse and work was available for those willing to take it; only the desperate or idle turned to robbery. Smuggling promised higher gains, and some in the gang were tired of petty theft.
"If we keep at this, we'll have to go back to our village," one grumbled. "At least there we won't starve."
"Exactly," another replied. "I can earn more serving in Bogotá than risking my life here for a few pesos."
The leader scowled. He had once served as a Spanish soldier and knew the value of patience and planning. Smuggling was tempting—but risky, especially on a river watched by the Crown.
He was still weighing the odds when one of his men burst into the camp, panting and wild-eyed.
"Alberto—there's prey!" the runner panted.
Alberto's interest snapped to attention. "What is it? Another small haul?"
"Not this time. The boatman said the passenger paid fifteen pesos in cash, but he had a bag of coins—maybe five hundred, maybe a hundred. And there's a lot of cargo. We don't know what's inside." The runner's voice was excited.
The men stirred. Even a few hundred pesos could see them through months of revelry and winter.
"Are you sure it's hundreds?" the leader asked, voice low.
"It seems so. The boatman paid fifteen for the whole boat without hesitation. it seems like a fool—if he's that careless, there may be more." The runner's face shone with greed.
Alberto chewed this over. A boat with cash and mysterious cargo could be a score big enough to change their luck. But the possibility that the passenger worked for the viceroy niggled at him. Agents of the Council of the Indies often traveled with money and weapons—men who showed no mercy in peacetime they were above any laws protected by the viceroy. The leader remembered how during their skirmish with the indians such men tortured and executed indigenous; even he as a soldier was afraid of them.
"One man alone?" a cocky youth scoffed. "Ten of us can kill one man."
Alberto raised a hand. He weighed risk and reward. "I don't think this is an ordinary merchant. He's likely an agent of the Council."
"What's that?" a bandit asked.
"Ruthless men," Alberto answered. "They handle rebellions, indigenous uprisings, even traitors. They don't play fair."
Silence fell. Then one man asked, "Should we ignore the chance?"
Alberto swallowed a moment of inner conflict and made a decision. "We will not storm the boat up close. We'll fire from the ridge—muskets at distance. Once we're certain he's dead, we take the boat." He pictured the strike. "Afterward we move to Riohacha and switch to smuggling. Banditry won't keep us fed. The viceroy will send troops soon enough—pack light."
A murmur ran through the men, equal parts thrill and fear. Then the practical and brutal question came: "What do we do with the women?"
Alberto's eyes hardened. For a moment, the men's laughter rose like a tide; the women began to tremble. Alberto said, flatly, "Lock them up for now. Once the job's done… we'll decide." His tone held a grim finality. The women drew closer together, the camp's mirth turning sour.