I opened my eyes to find myself in that small wooden box they called a cabin. It was only large enough to hold a bed, a cabinet, and a small table. It was not for the claustrophobic or those who could not handle noise. The wall creaked every other second, the hum of the engine was a constant background, and the shouts of the crew were a regular disturbance.
And this was the first-class accommodation. Those who could not afford the premium had to join hundreds below deck, in the suffocating humidity and inescapable mixture of torturous scents.
The gas lamp flickered each ti the ship made sudden motions. The shadow in the shape of the lamp's fra bore onto the desk. The pile of docunts, which had been neatly stacked before I fell asleep, was now slightly in disarray.
I yawned and stretched my hands before reaching for my tipiece. It was 5:48, leaving just enough ti to review the docunts that Isidro had prepared. He usually did everything for Martin, but whenever he was with him, he had always preferred to do business himself.
I left the comfort of the cushion and seated myself on the chair bolted to the floor. The docunt on top of the pile was the Conocimiento de Embarque, the shipping docunt that confird the quantity of the goods I had brought on board. An essential docunt to have, since selling directly from the ship was the norm for bulk commodities. Unloading it on shore before selling would incur additional costs in transport and storage.
The parchnt beneath the receipt contained Isidro's handwriting. It was the account of the amount of abaca on board and their respective grades. Of the 1,000 piculs of abaca on board, 500 piculs were first grade, a testant to the body of skilled workers who worked my plantation. Nearly 300 piculs were second grade, and the rest were mixed grade. The first-grade abaca bales were stored in the cargo hold, and, lacking enough space, the mixed-grade bales were stored on the deck. The signature of the ship officer confird all was in order.
If all went well, I was secured at least 10,000 pesos in gross profit, a small fortune for a provincial hacendero like myself.
Next in the pile were Isidro's notes on potential buyers. The list had significantly changed from last year's. The Spanish firms, which were the usual go-tos, were no longer on the list. Replacing them in Isidro's most recomnded buyers were the Chinese rchants. They offered slightly lower prices but ensured quick transactions and paid in cash. Not to ntion, I knew their operators by na.
The East Asia Shipping and Trade, a British firm that operated out of Hong Kong, remained in operation. As usual, Isidro listed them as a second choice, since even though they paid higher prices, they often dealt in letters of credit. This ant I would be paid in installnts by the bank: a certain percentage upfront, another percentage when the cargo sailed for England, and the final installnt when the cargo arrived in London. Being paid in full could take months.
The new arrivals, the Arican firms, were placed at the bottom. They offered the highest prices, as high as 10 pesos for a picul of high-grade abaca. I imdiately thought their placent was for a political reason, that my nephew must have assud I hated the Aricans and placed them last despite the significantly higher price. When I looked at his notes, I was corrected.
"They pay a fortune, but the paynt process runs like a pagong. If you are willing to wait until 1900, then I recomnd this one."
That was indeed a terrible trade-off. To a businessman, ti was as much a fortune as money. Profits needed to be quickly reinvested, and employees needed to be paid. Not to ntion that in uncertain tis like this, any future promise would not be regarded highly.
The constant movents and the dim light of the lamps quickly strained my eyes. I pressed them shut and massaged them, then flipped open my tipiece again. It was 5:00.
I went out of my cabin and climbed to the upper deck. The chill that greeted made glad that I had not forgotten to wear my coat. The crew were already busy, so mopping the decks, others dealing with the ropes.
We should be in Manila by this ti. But I could not see anything beyond the ship. The thinning mist surrounded the Diligencia on all sides. The early rays of the sun poked through like golden threads.
Rubbing my arms, I walked towards the railings. If they were tal, they would have been icy cold, but made of wood, they were only wet. I wiped them with my coat, then leaned in. At first, I tried to see beyond the mist, but failing, I turned my eyes to the hypnotic movent of the water below .
How had I ended up here?
"Don Lardizabal! Buenos días!" a familiar cheerful voice rang out behind . "Coffee?"
The captain of the ship, Señor Ronaldo Alcántara, strode toward carrying two cups. He was as cheerful as ever. An acquaintance Martin had made ten years ago when his steamship began operating in Southern Luzon.
I accepted the offered cup and felt the soothing warmth of the hot liquid through the handle. I raised the cup with both hands near my face, letting it warm my cheeks and allowing its aroma to fill my nostrils.
"Ah... look at those beasts. I would trade my second-born son to own one," the captain chuckled as he leaned on the railing, his eyes in the distance.
I followed his gaze. The haze was now almost gone, and gigantic silhouettes lood in the distance. I was on my toes, disbelieving what I was seeing.
Our ship got nearer, and the mist thinned and thinned until I recognized one of the giant structures. It was in the museum in Philadelphia. Now, it was before in its pri... in all its glory, not just as an entombed carcass.
USS Olympia.
What a terrifying and beautiful thing she was.
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