Chapter 173: Mal De La Cordillera

Krugger studied Pedro carefully before asking, his voice measured.

“Do all the families support keeping the country united?”

Pedro shrugged, irritation flickering across his face. “Of course not. Many believe that if this land fractures into several countries, they’ll have more chances to reach the center of power. More capitals, more courts, more opportunities to monopolize resources.” He spat onto the dirt road. “Blind fools. They don’t understand that only large nations are treated as equals in commerce. Small states are prey.”

Krugger nodded slowly. “And the fanatics won’t leave trade in civilian hands anyway. Most of the wealth will flow straight into the Church—into bishops’ coffers. No theocracy allows merchants to grow powerful.”

Pedro snapped his fingers in agreement. “Exactly. I understand why families backed by the Church support them—they’ll be rewarded. But ordinary merchants? They truly believe they’ll have a chance.” He scoffed. “Naïve.”

Krugger let out a low chuckle, though his eyes remained cold as they scanned the dense Chocó canopy surrounding the port. The jungle pressed in from all sides—towering ceibas, tangled lianas, and the The constant drone of insects, like a thousand angry beehives. The air was thick with moisture and rot, carrying the scent of wet earth, salt, and decaying leaves.

The two men walked side by side, speaking like old acquaintances rather than cautious allies.

“All right,” Krugger said at last. “We already have a guide. He recommends the Juntas–Sinú trail. It’s longer, but it keeps us clear of the fanatics’ blockades along the Cauca.”

Pedro spat again, his expression darkening. “Those zealots have turned Santa Fe into a fortress of madness. They believe they’re defending the soul of the Crown, but all they’ve done is strangle the valley. If your Germans march anywhere near the city, you’ll bleed for every bridge.”

Krugger checked the flint of his pistol, testing it with practiced ease. “I only have two hundred men here. The rest are waiting in San Andrés with the supplies. I can’t afford a siege. I need these men and the cargo in Medellín before the fanatics decide to concentrate their full strength against Carlos.”

“Then we take the Nordeste route,” Pedro said, unfolding a worn map and pointing to a dusty path traced in faded ink. “We bypass the central cordillera entirely. North through the Sinú, then south again through Remedios and Barbosa. It’s an old merchant road—dry, exposed, and unremarkable. The fanatics won’t expect anyone to come from the llanuras. They’re obsessed with Cáceres, waiting for the viceroy’s army.”

Krugger traced the route with his finger, stopping at Cáceres.”Do you know if the viceroy plans to send troops?”

Pedro sneered. “They’re terrified. Unless the fanatics threaten Zaragoza, Remedios, or the route to Cartagena, they’ll wait. Reinforcements are safer than action.”

Krugger nodded. “Good. I wonder how they’ll react when they discover us.”

Pedro smiled thinly. “I’m sure they’ll be delighted.”

Krugger folded the map. “It’s a long march. My men trained in Germany for distance, but not this heat. I worry the terrain will break them before any enemy does. Do you know of a doctor? An apothecary, at least?”

Pedro rolled his eyes. “You dream too much. Most elites in this port share a single physician, and even that took years of negotiation. No one like that will follow you into the mountains. But apothecaries—yes. A few might be willing, if you offer them work in Medellín.”

Krugger considered it, then nodded. “Fine. Make it quick. We march tomorrow.”He paused. “Any loyalist soldiers here?”

Pedro glanced toward the harbor, where uniformed men loitered in the shade. “Most take bribes—from us or from European interests. They’re exiles, forgotten men. Even if one or two remain loyal, the viceroy has larger worries in Santa Fe.”

Krugger exhaled in relief. “Then prepare.”

two days later

Krugger stood at the head of the column, staring at the western mountain range in silence. The cordillera rose before them like a stone wall crowned with clouds, vast and indifferent. Even he, a veteran of European campaigns, felt a faint pressure in his chest—not fear, but respect. Behind him, the soldiers shifted their weight and tightened their packs. No one spoke, yet unease passed through the ranks like a current. They all understood that once they entered those mountains, there would be no easy retreat.

The preparations dragged on longer than Krugger had hoped. Supplies had to be redistributed, mules inspected, powder sealed against moisture. Two full days passed before everything was ready. On the morning of departure, Pedro approached him one last time.

“I hope you can accomplish what our families want,” Pedro said quietly.

Krugger nodded, offered a brief bow, and turned away. Without ceremony, he gave the order to march.

The Pass of Urrao greeted them with cruelty. The trail rose almost vertically, a narrow scar carved into the mountain’s face. Rain turned the earth into slick mud, and loose stones slid beneath their boots. The path twisted upward like a serpent, forcing the men into a slow, exhausting climb.

“Keep the mules tight!” Krugger roared as icy wind tore through the highlands, carrying mist and the sharp scent of wet stone.

The ascent was relentless. In the jungles of Chocó, heat and insects had been their enemy; here, it was the altitude itself. The air grew thin and brittle, each breath burning the lungs. Every step toward the ridge felt like lifting lead weights. The two hundred German soldiers—men hardened by drills on the flat plains of Lower Saxony—struggled as the trail transformed into what many muttered was a staircase built by giants.

Krugger marched at the front, his eyes fixed on the mist-shrouded summit of the Páramo del Sol.

“Don’t look down!” he shouted over his shoulder. “If you look down, the mountain wins. Fix your eyes on the man ahead of you and keep your rhythm. We’re almost there!”

As they climbed, the jungle below vanished. The tall trees and thick vines gave way to stunted shrubs, pale grasses, and wind-swept moorland. The world narrowed to stone, fog, and breath. The march ceased to be merely physical—it became a test of will. One careless step meant a fall into nothingness, a thousand feet of silence and rock.

At first, men stumbled simply from exhaustion. Krugger dismissed it as fatigue, pushing them onward. But soon he noticed something wrong. Soldiers assigned to carry the exhausted began to falter as well. Faces turned ashen beneath the grime. Lips cracked. Some men trembled uncontrollably, even when wrapped in blankets.

“I think those soldiers are sick,” Krugger said grimly. “Check them. Tell me if this is a plague—or something worse.”

The apothecaries nodded. Each took a careful sip from their canteens before heading toward the tents where the fallen men had been laid. They were not physicians in the strict sense—trained under doctors but lacking formal titles—yet they knew the illnesses of these lands far better than any European surgeon.

Inside the tent, the air was heavy and stale, thick with sweat and the sour scent of sickness. One of the apothecaries, an older man named Don Manuel, knelt beside a shivering German sergeant. He pulled back the damp blanket.

His face drained of color—not in surprise, but in recognition.

“May God protect us,” Don Manuel murmured, crossing himself. “This is no mountain chill.”

He pointed to the soldier’s neck and chest, where dark, blood-filled eruptions stained the skin.

“Verrugas,” he said softly. “Mal de la Cordillera. We have seen it in the northern mines—but never in so many men at once.”

Krugger bent to enter the tent, covering his nose against the foul air. “Is it a plague?” he asked.

The younger apothecary swallowed. “It is a severe sickness. We know of no true cure. These men… they may have to remain here.”

Krugger’s expression hardened. “There must be another way,” he said. “These men have wives and sons waiting in San Andrés. It is one thing to die fighting for their future—another to be abandoned to a disease on this mountain.”

The older apothecary shook his head with grim certainty.

But the younger hesitated.

Krugger noticed at once. His gaze locked onto him.”You know something,” he said quietly. “Speak. Is there any way at all?”

The tent fell into a tense, waiting silence.

The young man studied the sick soldiers for a long moment, then exhaled slowly.

“There may be a way,” he said at last. “The Emberá-Katío live in these mountains. I once heard of a miner whose wife carried him in a small cart after he fell ill with the same sickness. She brought him to a jaibaná—a healer, something like a shaman. The man survived.”

He hesitated.”The problem is… we don’t know if they will help us.”

Krugger’s jaw tightened. His fists clenched at his sides.”I will go,” he said flatly. “If they refuse, I will make them help.”

The young apothecary stiffened and stepped forward.”Sir—please. These people are not enemies. They have been oppressed by Spain for centuries. They do not deserve to die for this.” His voice trembled, but he forced the words out. “Let me go with you. I don’t want blood on my hands.”

Krugger looked at him for a long moment. Then his gaze shifted to the men lying in the tents, and finally to the soldiers waiting in silence outside.

He exhaled through his nose.”Very well,” he said. “You will try first. We will attempt this peacefully.”

His eyes hardened.”But if they refuse, I will not let my men die on this mountain.”

The young man nodded quickly. “If you promise them protection—support—many will listen. I’ve heard of your intentions, of the Gómez family. Indigenous villages are hunted and crushed by the Spanish. If you offer them a future, some will help willingly.”

Krugger considered this in silence, then shook his head once.”We will speak of promises later,” he said. “For now, understand this: I do not trust them—any more than they should trust me.”

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