CHAPTER 112: THE SHOCKED EMBASSADOR

The journey took four days. Outside London, the landscape changed completely — vast fields stretched into the distance, where hardworking farmers were sowing crops under the fading light of September.

Francisco leaned forward, watching them curiously. "Are they planting wheat?" he asked, puzzled.

The ambassador followed his gaze and nodded. "That’s right."

Francisco frowned. "But isn’t wheat supposed to grow in warm climates? We’re entering winter."

The ambassador gave him a long look, as if reconsidering how clever the young man truly was. After a sigh, he explained, "It’s a variety called winter wheat."

Francisco went silent for a moment, then suddenly slapped his forehead. "That’s right! I remember reading about it in one of Arthur Young’s Annals of Agriculture."

The ambassador raised an eyebrow. "And how exactly did you manage to read those books? Aren’t they banned by the Spanish Crown?"

Francisco hesitated. He wasn’t entirely sure whether they were banned or not — he just remembered buying a copy somewhere. After thinking for a moment, he smiled confidently."Of course not. Arthur Young is even encouraged by the Crown. His works on agriculture can only help the nation and its people."

The ambassador’s lips curved into a faint smile. His attempt to catch Francisco off guard had failed. The boy was sharper than he looked."Quite right," he said smoothly. "My mistake. Speaking of that Roman cement you mentioned earlier — a rather important figure here in Britain once showed great interest in it. About a year ago, he asked me to invite you for a conversation. Unfortunately, it wasn’t easy to arrange; you are quite a... delicate figure in New Granada, and Spain remains unsure what to make of you."

Francisco nodded slowly, curiosity lighting up his face. "May I ask who this person is?"

The ambassador smiled. "A very prominent man — considered the first civil engineer in the world."

His aide, sitting beside him, muttered under his breath, "Of course he is. He invented the title himself."

Francisco laughed at that. "Alright, I understand."

The ambassador shot his aide a cold look. "Show some respect. That man has more merit than you, hiding behind my back."

The aide fell silent, deciding not to test his superior’s patience further.

Francisco, still intrigued, leaned forward. "So, what exactly did he do?"

The ambassador sighed, his tone weary but admiring. "He could be considered greater than you. He discovered something called hydraulic lime — a material that allowed the English to build much faster. It’s far superior to ordinary lime. And unlike you, he didn’t find it in an old book."

Francisco nodded thoughtfully. He wasn’t sure whether that made the man luckier or simply more ingenious — perhaps both. Still, pride flickered in his expression."So that’s all? If that’s the case, I should be called a civil engineer too," he said with a grin.

The ambassador rolled his eyes. "Of course that wasn’t all. He also built the Eddystone Lighthouse — an endeavor once thought impossible. Two previous attempts had failed before him. That’s why he created hydraulic lime in the first place — it allowed him to complete the lighthouse."

Francisco’s eyes widened in astonishment. "Incredible..." he breathed. His admiration was sincere, the kind only another inventor could feel. "What’s his name, if I may ask?"

The ambassador shifted uncomfortably. After all, the object of admiration was a Briton — and that was not an easy thing for a Spanish diplomat to praise."His name is John Smeaton," he said at last. "Though I’m not sure you’ll be able to meet him. Last I heard, he was gravely ill. For all I know... he might already be dead."

Francisco’s expression softened with sadness. "Could you at least allow me to write him a letter? Perhaps it will reach him in time — even if only to let me know a little about him."

The ambassador hesitated. But seeing the sincerity and disappointment in Francisco’s face, he finally relented. "Very well," he said. "But you must not include anything about the Roman cement — no recipes, no details that might reveal your process. My aide, Miguel, will review the letter before it is sent."

Francisco sighed, muttering under his breath, "Is it my recipe or yours?"Still, he nodded obediently. He knew this might be his only chance to communicate with that great man, so he let the topic rest. Instead, he turned his attention to the journey, eager to see the city ahead.

Moments later, the coachman called out, "Sir, we’re approaching Newcastle! Prepare yourselves for the smoke — there’s plenty of it!"

Curious, Francisco frowned and pulled aside the curtain. What he saw made him gasp. The air was thick with fog — but not like the mist of London. This one was darker, almost black and gray, heavy and suffocating. It wasn’t fog at all, but smoke, rising in dense clouds from countless chimneys. The sight gave him chills.

"Why is the fog here so dense?" he asked, turning to the ambassador.

"I’m not sure..." the ambassador replied, narrowing his eyes. He looked out the window and saw row after row of tall brick buildings, each crowned with a chimney vomiting dark fumes. His expression hardened. "It seems," he muttered, "we haven’t been diligent enough."

Miguel, who had been quietly fiddling with his gloves, froze at the tone in his superior’s voice. "What do you mean, Ambassador?" he asked cautiously.

The ambassador gave him a cold stare. "Look outside the carriage."

Miguel obeyed, pulling the curtain aside. The moment he saw the sprawling industrial landscape — factories, workshops, and endless chimneys — his face went pale. Not from fear of Britain itself, but from the realization of what this meant. Spain’s old rival had advanced far more than anyone in Madrid seemed to realize.

"My apologies, sir," he said quickly, lowering his head. "We were so focused on the alliance that... I haven’t had time to visit beyond London."

The aide lowered his head. "My apologies, sir. We were so focused on the alliance that I haven’t had time to visit outside London."

The ambassador’s voice turned sharp. "After this alliance is settled, I’m going to send you across the whole of Britain. I want a full report of everything you see. I refuse to learn about these things fifteen years later on my deathbed."

Miguel nodded, his expression heavy with resignation. The thought of traveling through the entire country was exhausting enough, but knowing it would likely ruin any chance of promotion made it worse.

Francisco, meanwhile, clicked his tongue softly and murmured, "It seems I’ve just brought some misfortune upon the poor aide."

The carriage fell into silence. The ambassador’s expression didn’t improve; if anything, it grew darker. Through the window, he could see the endless plumes of smoke rising from the factories — the visible mark of Britain’s growing power.They were using steam engines in astonishing numbers, while Spain could barely construct a single one. The realization stung.

He resolved then and there to inform the king of what he had seen, hoping to convince him to invest more seriously in the development of such machines. His gaze drifted to Francisco.He wasn’t sure if the young man truly had the potential to change things... but with a weary sigh, he admitted to himself that there were far too few minds like his in the Spanish Empire — too few who still cared about invention.

They soon reached an inn where they were going to spend the next week or so. Outside stood an English aide with a refined look—though a bit too relaxed, almost like a worker. From his attire, Francisco guessed he might belong to the middle class. What surprised him most was that the man wore no wig. Since wigs were still a mark of nobility, it meant his status was either not high enough—or not noble enough.

Once close, everyone exchanged handshakes.

"A pleasure to meet you. My name is William Murdoch. I work for Boulton and Watt," said the man seriously, flanked by two British soldiers.

The ambassador raised an eyebrow, then smiled. "A pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard of your company. Honestly, it’s impressive what you’ve managed to do with the steam machine—this city is the best evidence of that."

Murdoch smiled politely. "I’ll be sure to tell them your kind words. Today, I was sent by the royal family to accompany you to the mine. They also said that if Spain is interested, we can sell you some of the machines you’re looking at—for the colonies or the mainland."

Francisco was taken aback by Murdoch’s boldness—and at the same time, he felt a twinge of unease. Just those words could easily cause tension between him and the ambassador. It seemed this journey wasn’t going to be as simple as just observing machines.

The ambassador also raised his eyebrows and said, "We would be happy to consider it. Though, we’re more interested in a certain machine—one that helps make parts for the machine itself. I don’t know if your country is willing to sell such a thing. If you do, we’d be glad to send a few to New Granada."

Murdoch went silent for a moment, studying the ambassador closely. Then he looked away and said, "I’m sorry, sir. I’m not sure which machine you mean—but I’ll ask on your behalf."

Both old foxes locked eyes, and for a brief instant, sparks seemed to fly between them.