The sun had barely cleared the horizon when Buenaventura woke with a half-hearted sigh. Wooden piers creaked under the weight of early-morning laborers hauling crates of cacao, salted fish, and crates whose contents no one asked too many questions about. Brigs and schooners swayed gently against their moorings, their hulls weathered and patched like the sailors who called them home. From the governor’s palace, whitewashed walls flaking in the heat, a flag fluttered weakly in the humid breeze, a reminder that Spain still claimed authority—though whispers from the jungle suggested that claim was fragile.
The air was thick and warm, carrying the smell of saltwater, rotting seaweed, and wet earth, mixed with smoke from cooking fires, tar from ship repairs, and the occasional tang of damp jungle vines encroaching on the settlement. Somewhere down a muddy alley, a child shrieked, chased by a small pack of dogs, while in the distance, church bells rang a slow, uneven call to Mass. Every surface glistened with moisture from the night’s brief tropical shower, and the heat clung to clothing like a second skin.
Buenaventura thrummed with life and tension. Soldiers, sunburned and wary, patrolled the wooden streets, eyes flicking to shadowy taverns where merchants whispered in low tones. Indigenous traders drifted through the market stalls, silent and watchful, noting who moved where. Rumors of uprisings elsewhere in New Granada floated on the air, as pervasive as the scent of mangroves carried in by the wind.
You stand now at the edge of this chaotic port, the city sprawling before you, each district a choice:
The Docks: Ships, sailors, and contraband. Smugglers’ eyes watch every crate and sailor.
The Plaza: The governor’s palace, the church, and a scattering of shops. Rumors and official orders pass like coins in hand.
The Alleyways and Stilt Houses: The crowded, muddy paths of everyday life, where whispers hide in the shadows.
The Jungle Edges: Overgrown paths leading to maroon settlements and Indigenous villages, rich with secrets, danger, and opportunity.
The humid air of Buenaventura clung to Santiago Valverde like a second skin as he stepped onto the creaking planks of the dock. The scent of salt and tar mingled with the sharp tang of coffee beans spilling from burlap sacks, a reminder of the trade empire he now commanded. His boots were polished, his coat tailored in the latest Spanish fashion—every inch the loyal son of the Crown. Yet beneath the silk cravat, his heart beat to a different rhythm.
He paused to watch a group of stevedores wrestle with a stubborn crate, their backs bent under the weight of goods destined for men who would never know hunger. Santiago’s dark eyes softened. These were his mother’s people—the Quechua blood that ran in his veins tied him to their struggle as surely as the Falcon’s wings tied him to the night.
“Señor Valverde!” A port official hurried toward him, ledger in hand, sweat beading on his brow. “The shipment from Cartagena—delayed again. Pirates, they say.”
Santiago smiled faintly, the kind of smile that could mean anything. “Then we shall pray for calm seas,” he replied, voice smooth as aged rum. He signed the ledger with a flourish, the nobleman’s son playing his part to perfection.
But as the official scurried away, Santiago’s gaze drifted to the narrow alleys beyond the plaza, where shadows pooled like ink. Tonight, those shadows would be his cloak. Tonight, the Black Falcon would strike again.
The port official says, "It is nonsense, probably got confiscated from the British. Bonaparte's brother is still sitting in Madrid."
Elana had come to Buenaventura because her last resistance cell in the previous town had been located by the Royalists, and she had had to flee the area. Fortunately, she had had time to collect her things, including her papers which showed that she was the daughter of a wealthy Criollo family.
She had settled in the Stilt House region, and was trying to make contact with the local resistance, but she had to move slowly and carefully in order to not be detected by the Royalists again.
She had spent the last month just making a living as a barmaid in one of the more popular bars, getting to know the locals and her neighbors. She was always friendly, and managed to tactfully put off the many young men's advances, saying she was still brokenhearted from her last suitor's unexpected death from smallpox.
Still, she was getting bored of the day-to-day tedium, and was hoping something interesting would happen soon.
Santiago’s pen paused mid-flourish. He looked up, the faintest curve of a smile playing at his lips. The official’s words were meant as reassurance, but to Santiago they were a reminder: the Crown’s grip was loosening, its attention fixed across the ocean. Here, in Buenaventura, shadows had room to grow wings.
"I think a cool drink is in order." he says as he walks back down the docks towards the town.
Finding a modest cantina in the Stilt House region of the town, Santiago opens the door. His boots were polished, his coat cut in the Spanish style, yet his gaze carried something sharper than noble arrogance.
He approached the bar, removing his gloves with deliberate calm.
“Señorita,” he said, voice smooth, “a glass of your strongest. The sea has been unkind today.”
"If El Dorado were easy to find it would have been found centuries ago," Carlos Montoya replies to Don Enrique. They and Don Enrique's servants are returning to Buenaventura after a fruitless five weeks in the jungle. They push leaves and branches from the overgrown path that are attempting to keep them in the jungle.
"I made no promises of finding anything," Carlos says. He wipes the sweat from his face with an old hankerchief, one that had belonged to his father. "I am disappointed too. I've been searching for years."
A town crier around noon moves through the street wearing loose fitting white shirt and a vest, breeches and a thin rapier with a bell. The man rings his bell five times DONG, DONG, DONG!!!!
After people are staring at him and he has their full attention and screams, "“Hear ye, good people of Buenaventura!
By instruction of the local authorities and the honorable Cabildo, I bring before you the latest reports arriving from the city of Santa Fe de Bogotá.
On the twentieth day of July,(two weeks prior) notable residents of Santa Fe gathered in the principal square to address concerns regarding the administration of public affairs during these uncertain times in the wider kingdoms of Spain.
During the course of the day, an incident in a shop involving a flower vase drew considerable attention and contributed to heightened discussions among various groups in the city.
The matter, though modest in appearance, gave rise to broader conversations concerning how governance might best be maintained for the security and well-being of the provinces.
In response to the day’s events, the leading citizens and authorities of Santa Fe agreed upon the formation of a Governing Junta, intended—according to the reports—to provide continuity of order and to attend to the interests of the realm while circumstances abroad remain unsettled.
No definitive declaration has been reported regarding changes to the allegiance of the provinces, and all accounts emphasize the importance of calm, prudence, and the avoidance of misunderstanding among the people.
The Cabildo of this town therefore counsels all inhabitants to go about their labors peacefully, maintain due respect toward all parties, and refrain from spreading alarm or disorder until further communications from the capital may arrive.
These are the notices received at present; more may follow as couriers reach our port.
Announced in Buenaventura in these days of August, in the Year of Our Lord eighteen hundred and ten.”