Chapter 193: A New Industrial Revolution

When the fanatic army reached the position where the Spanish forces had been encamped, they found nothing but an empty camp.

Tents stood abandoned and half-collapsed, supplies lay scattered across the ground, and fires had been left to die in shallow pits. Everything was disordered. It was clear the enemy had departed in haste.

Confusion spread quickly through the ranks.

Unable to make sense of it, the officers sent for General Giuseppe. Nearly half an hour later, he arrived and surveyed the scene in silence. His eyes followed the abandoned camp, then lifted toward the distant outline of the city.

He cursed under his breath.

“Those bastards hid inside the city,” Giuseppe said coldly. “It seems their general is not a fool.”

The soldiers reacted with an uproar. The plan to abandon Santa Fe had been Giuseppe’s own decision, even though the bishop and several influential figures of the local government had chosen to hide in a town far from the city. Still, many sympathizers of the cause remained within Santa Fe’s walls.

Giuseppe frowned, his expression hardening.

They had been forced to leave the city because defending it against a large Spanish army was impossible. Even if many of the fanatic troops were Europeans themselves, and much of the Spanish rank and file were mestizos, the high command of the royal army was Spanish—and experienced. Holding Santa Fe was made even more difficult by that cursed local custom: the city had no defensive walls.

“Send scouts,” Giuseppe ordered. “I want confirmation that they truly retreated into the city.”

He paused, then added, “Send word to the bishop as well. He should prepare himself to lose the men he left behind. If any of them survive, we may still use them to gather intelligence on the Spanish army. It will make our attack easier.”

The scouts dispersed at once, and a messenger was sent riding hard toward the bishop.

The situation had changed completely.

The roles of offense and defense had shifted, forcing the fanatic leadership into a difficult choice. They could lay siege to Santa Fe and hope the troops inside would starve—a plan that was far from realistic. Or they could launch an assault without regard for the civilian lives trapped within the city.

The realization struck hard. The fanatics, who had been preparing to celebrate, now faced a grim and costly decision.

Yet beyond the ocean, events were unfolding that would soon ripple across the world. By January, news had arrived from Europe: Spain had suffered a major defeat at the Siege of Toulon.

The British abandonment of the Spanish army—and the deliberate burning of the evacuation fleet—sent shockwaves across Europe.

When the news reached Madrid, the Spanish king reacted with fury. He publicly accused Britain of treachery and cowardice, denouncing the alliance that had only months earlier been presented as unshakable. The blame fell squarely on Admiral Hood, whom the Spanish court accused of prioritizing the evacuation of British troops over the rescue of Spanish soldiers. To make matters worse, the British fleet carried away the finest French warships seized at Toulon before abandoning Spain to its fate.

London responded with deflection.

British officials argued that the chaos of the evacuation had been caused by Spanish forces themselves, accusing them of abandoning the Mulgrave Forts too quickly and throwing the retreat into disarray. Hood’s defenders insisted that his true priority had been the destruction of French naval power—not the preservation of Spanish lives—and that any other outcome would have been strategically irresponsible.

The damage was already done.

Tensions between Britain and Spain escalated rapidly. The alliance that had once terrified revolutionary France—barely nine months old—began to fracture under the weight of mutual accusations and resentment. What had been hailed as a united front against the Republic now stood poisoned by mistrust and humiliation.

Yet the battle left other legacies.

Amid the disorder and confusion of the French Republic, one officer’s name began to circulate with increasing frequency. Captain Napoleon Bonaparte, whose actions during the siege had drawn attention from higher command, was promoted to brigadier general. By merit alone, he became one of the youngest generals in France. Had the Republic not been so liberal in granting high ranks during its political chaos, the promotion would have marked an even more extraordinary milestone.

Still, those who already knew of him began to watch more closely.

!794 University of Göttingen

The air in the workshop was thick with the acrid stench of rendered pork fat and overheated iron. Smoke clung to the rafters, and sweat darkened the backs of every man present.

Klaus held the stopwatch with white knuckles, standing rigid as the seconds crept forward. The other apprentices kept their distance, eyes fixed on the iron cylinder at the center of the room. It had been cast locally—cheaply—and its surface was riddled with microscopic pores. Under rising pressure, any one of them could become the point of catastrophic failure.

Francisco placed his hand on the intake valve.

Even through his heavy leather gloves, the metal burned.

“Now,” Francisco whispered.

He turned the lever.

Steam shrieked into the chamber, a piercing whistle that clawed at the ears as it sought any weakness, any desperate path of escape. For one terrifying second, white vapor burst from the seams of the piston, shrouding the machine in a ghostly fog. Klaus flinched, already drawing breath to declare the experiment a failure.

Then, the miracle of applied physics took hold.

The intense heat caused the hemp fibers—saturated with tallow—to swell. At the same time, Francisco’s internal springs forced the segmented piston outward, slamming the seal tight against the irregular walls of the cylinder. The shrill whistling stopped at once.

A tense, suffocating silence followed.

Then came a deep, metallic clank, heavy and final, strong enough to make the very floorboards of the workshop vibrate.

Above them, the massive wooden beam groaned as it began to rise, driven upward by an unstoppable, hydraulic force.

“It’s moving!” one of the apprentices shouted.

“Gott im Himmel…” Klaus muttered, his stopwatch slipping forgotten from his fingers. He stared at the machine in disbelief. “There is no leakage. The packing is holding the pressure perfectly.”

He shook his head, then added with exaggerated solemnity, “Good job, kid. You’ve reached the level of Watt. Once this news spreads, you may become the proud German Watt of our glorious empire. Perhaps even the Emperor will give you a medal.”

The last words were spoken with clear disdain, half-mocking, half-amused.

Francisco chuckled. He knew well enough that in Göttingen, many held little love for the Holy Roman Empire.

The engine settled into a steady, hypnotic rhythm: hiss, thud… hiss, thud. It was a mechanical dance, precise and relentless. Francisco watched the piston rod slide up and down, coated in a thin black film of grease. He had not needed Wilkinson’s precision boring mill. Instead, he had created a seal that learned the shape of the cylinder with every stroke.

He turned to Klaus, his face smeared with soot, but his smile bold—almost defiant.

“It seems we can now inform Lichtenberg that the engine is functional,” Francisco said, raising his voice over the machine’s roar. “And if James Watt wants his monopoly back, he’ll have to come to Göttingen to claim it. We have made his ’precision’ obsolete. We have conquered steel with ingenuity.”

Klaus stepped closer to the vibrating cylinder, mesmerized. The burning animal fat released a pungent, greasy smoke, yet the engine showed no loss of power. It was a crude machine, almost primitive in its materials, but at its heart beat an efficiency no one outside England had ever achieved.

“This is more than an engine, Francisco,” Klaus said at last, his tone changed, respectful. “This is a declaration of war. You’ve proven that steam does not belong to a single king—or a single nation.”

He paused, then leaned closer and lowered his voice. “The professor and the director want to speak with you. Alone. They hope you can spare the time.”

Francisco nodded, exhaustion finally catching up with him. “I will,” he said quietly. “But honestly, first I need a bath… and some time with Catalina. I’ve pushed myself too hard these past months.”

Klaus glanced at Francisco’s dark, sunken eyes and chuckled. “Fair enough. Do that. Just remember to come see us once you’re awake.”

Behind them, the professor and the students gathered around the metal beast they had created, their faces lit with excitement. They spoke rapidly, gesturing, already imagining papers, lectures, recognition. This machine would make their names immortal.

Francisco watched them for a moment and smiled without realizing it.

Then he placed his hand on the vibrating iron.

In his mind, he was no longer in Germany.

He saw the mines, the dams, and the valleys of New Granada. He saw rivers tamed, mountains opened, labor transformed. With this flexible piston, he knew he could bring the Industrial Revolution to his homeland.

Then his thoughts drifted south, toward Antioquia, and the news he had received from there. His smile faded.

“I will do whatever I can to give you a better future,” he whispered. “So please… survive, Father.”

Without thinking, he looked toward the southwest—toward that tropical, untamed land that filled humanity with both fear and awe.

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