Chapter 248: Plan Mompox

Carlos nodded solemnly.

“This would also draw the full attention of the Spanish forces. That place is where the gold of Antioquia and Chocó passes. If we take it—and more importantly, if we can hold it—the Crown will lose direct control over that flow of gold.”

He paused briefly, measuring his words.

“And without it, financing their expeditions in New Granada will become exceedingly difficult. But that cuts both ways. They will attack with everything they have to recover Mompox. I would not be surprised if they chose to ignore the fanatics in the east, if only to reclaim it.”

Krugger frowned slightly.

“Is that city truly so important?”

Carlos let out a short, restrained chuckle.

“Are you serious? That is where the smelting house stands. All the gold is processed there. Even now, with the situation as delicate as it is, nearly three hundred kilograms of gold pass through it each month thats around two hundred thousand pesos.”

He leaned back slightly.

“It may not seem like much, especially compared to what we earn from the factories Francisco left behind. But this gold…” He tapped lightly against the table. “It serves a different purpose. It can act as a reserve—something essential for the banking project Francisco is pursuing.”

His tone sharpened just a fraction.

“And unlike the mines, the profits beyond the workers’ costs are nearly pure. Once we are no longer required to surrender a share to the Crown, that wealth becomes entirely ours.”

Though Carlos spoke as if it were modest in comparison, Krugger understood the distinction all too well.

Factory income could sustain operations, yes—but it fluctuated, depended on trade, on stability. Gold, on the other hand, was absolute.

From what Carlos could retain, even five hundred kilograms in a year would be considerable. And beyond its immediate value, it represented something far greater—a reserve capable of shaping outcomes far beyond the battlefield.

In the right hands, it could purchase loyalty… or even kings.

With such a reserve secured, the campaign toward Maracaibo would not merely be possible—it would be controllable.

As the thought settled, Krugger’s expression shifted.

“And our supplies?” he asked, his tone more direct. “Carlos, we cannot afford restraint in this matter. If we are to strike a place of such importance, we must be prepared accordingly.”

Carlos nodded, a faint smile returning.

“That brings me to something else. Francisco has secured an arrangement with the British. He has acquired enough weapons to equip an entire army.”

Krugger’s attention sharpened immediately.

“I received word not long ago—they are currently in San Andrés.”

Carlos allowed the implication to settle before continuing.

“With those supplies, we could take the position with relative ease. We could even redeploy a significant portion of your forces back toward Antioquia.”

The smile faded slightly.

“But it comes at a cost. We must strike both targets on the same day.”

Krugger’s brow tightened.

“If Puerto Berrío falls first,” Carlos continued, “our position becomes untenable. Spain is not blind—they would send their navy to the river’s mouth and cut off any further support.”

He tapped the map with quiet precision.

“So both positions must fall together. If we succeed, even if the navy attempts to blockade the river afterward, it will be too late. The supplies will already be in our hands.”

Krugger nodded slowly.

He understood the difficulty.

A coordinated strike offered a narrow window—one that relied on surprise and precision. Without it, taking Mompox or El Banco once they were fully alert would become a far more costly endeavor… perhaps even impossible.

Carlos leaned over the map once more, his finger tracing a scarcely marked stretch between the jagged elevations of the Perijá mountains and the stagnant, dark waters of the Zapatosa marsh.

“We will use this,” he said quietly. “Our blind spot.”

Krugger followed the motion.

“The locals call it Las Pailitas,” Carlos continued, his voice lowering into something colder, more deliberate. “It is not a city—barely even a village. The Viceroy would not bother to mark it in any official record.”

His finger paused.

“A scattering of clearings. Mud-brick dwellings. A place where muleteers descending from Ocaña stop to rest before facing the heat of the river.”

He glanced up briefly.

“And because of that… it is precisely the kind of place no one will think to watch.”

Krugger narrowed his eyes, his seasoned mind already calculating distances, supply lines, and the pace of a forced march.

Carlos continued, noting the silent evaluation.

“The reasoning is simple—twofold, in fact: invisibility and proximity. Las Pailitas lies far enough from the Magdalena that Spanish patrols in El Banco will hear nothing—no steel, no timber, no movement. Yet it remains close enough that a thousand men may reach the riverbank in a single night’s march under a full moon.”

He paused briefly.

“If we secure the population—whether by gold or by force—the troops arriving from San Andrés may disembark along the Cesar River and disappear beneath the canopy without so much as a whisper reaching Viceroy Ezpeleta.”

A faint, calculating smile formed as he watched Krugger begin sketching possible movements in his ledger.

“More importantly, the terrain itself is deceptive. The Spanish believe the lands east of Tamalameque to be impassable—swamps, decay, and stagnant water. They do not know what the locals call tierras firmes—solid paths hidden within the brush, leading directly to the rear of El Banco.”

His finger traced the imagined route once more.

“We will strike from where they believe no man can walk. By the time they understand we are not smugglers, but an army, our artillery will already be in position along the shore—cutting the river between Mompox and the sea.”

Krugger hesitated.

“They truly do not know of these paths?”

Carlos gave a short shake of his head.

“It would seem not. Some have attempted to inform the Viceroy, but he appears… otherwise occupied with Cartagena. Perhaps he dismissed the reports. Perhaps he never believed them at all—mere ramblings, in his eyes.”

He allowed himself a slight shrug.

“In any case, it presents us with an opportunity. Once discovered, I have no doubt they would fortify the area without delay.”

Krugger frowned, his tone more cautious now.

“And the indigenous presence? It seems unlikely the Spanish would leave such a region unattended without cause.”

Carlos nodded, his expression turning more serious.

“They are there. The Chimila, in particular. The Spanish consider them barbarians.”

He paused.

“I would advise against provoking them. They have driven Spanish forces out of that region before.”

A brief silence followed.

“If we can reach an understanding with them, their cooperation could prove… valuable. Perhaps even decisive in an assault on Mompox.”

Krugger glanced at him.

“You have already sent envoys?”

Carlos inclined his head.

“My own men.”

“The same… discreet agents?” Krugger asked carefully.

“Yes,” Carlos replied. “Though whether they succeed or not remains uncertain. For now, the matter rests in their hands.”

Krugger nodded once, accepting it.

“Then I will begin preparations. I will speak with my officers and ready the men.”

He paused, then added:

“Do you have the inventory of the supplies Francisco secured? British weapons are among the finest, but they differ from what my men are accustomed to. We must prepare accordingly.”

Carlos turned toward his desk, retrieving a sealed document—the inventory delivered personally by the British for his approval.

He handed it over without comment.

Krugger’s eyes sharpened as he scanned the contents.

“With this…” he murmured, a faint satisfaction in his voice, “taking Mompox may prove far less difficult than expected. The Spanish may not even understand what has struck them before we secure the area.”

His gaze lingered on the final entries.

“And these cannons… they will be particularly effective against any naval response.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow slightly.

“Those cannons are reserved for Maracaibo,” he said calmly. “Do not consider using them here.”

He leaned back, his tone measured.

“And as for the navy—they would be unwise to enter the Magdalena in force. Even light artillery would be sufficient to cripple their vessels if they attempted it.”

Krugger gave a small shrug.

“I merely meant to say I understand.”

Krugger stepped out with a renewed sense of purpose, his earlier restraint giving way to a quiet, controlled excitement.

At last, the army could begin to take proper shape.

He had already decided: the mestizo troops would be assigned to secure the port near Medellín, while his own men—those he trusted most—would march on Mompox. With the weapons now at their disposal, the force under his command was no longer merely capable—it was formidable.

A city, he thought, should not withstand it for long.

Upon reaching the camp, he wasted no time. Orders were given, and the officers were summoned without delay.

Within the hour, they had gathered inside the command tent.

Krugger stood at the center, his presence alone enough to quiet the last murmurs.

“I require scouts in Mompox,” he began, his voice steady and direct. “You will observe their defenses, their routines, their weaknesses—everything of value.”

He paused briefly, letting the instruction settle.

“However, your priority will be El Banco. Focus your efforts there.”

His gaze moved across the room.

“Send the mestizo units. They will blend more easily among the locals.”

A faint shift passed through his expression—not quite a smile, but something close to anticipation.

“The time for expansion has come. I expect each of you to be prepared.”

He let the silence stretch just enough to command attention.

“This campaign must be executed without flaw. We will not simply win—we will demonstrate what discipline and resolve truly mean.”

His voice lowered slightly.

“And when we are finished, the world will understand what it means to face a German army.”

His expression remained cold, composed to the point of severity.

Yet beneath it, in the stillness of his gaze, there remained something unmistakable—the restless fire of a young general, eager not merely for victory, but for distinction.

It was not enough to conquer.

He intended to be remembered.

In these distant and long-contested lands, he would carve something greater than a campaign.

He would build a legend.

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