Chapter 249: Las Pailitas

As preparations advanced, Antioquia grew steadily more active.

Though the steel mill continued to operate at only half—perhaps even less—of its full capacity, it was sufficient. Enough weapons were being produced to equip Krugger and the small force he had taken with him. The remainder of his army would arrive from San Andrés.

Unwilling to rely solely on reports, Krugger chose to see the terrain for himself.

He traveled in disguise.

Krugger adjusted the coarse wool of his poncho, already feeling the oppressive heat of the lowlands pressing against his skin. To any passing patrol, he was nothing more than an aging merchant from the highlands, his mules burdened with Flavored Aguardiente—a plausible cover for the journey from Medellín.

It was, after all, a common trade.

Many merchants traveled toward Antioquia to acquire liquor, only to sell it at higher prices in distant regions. It was a modest but reliable way to earn profit, though not without risk. The roads were dangerous—wild beasts, hostile terrain, and at times even indigenous groups posed a constant threat.

Yet for those accustomed to such travel, it was a manageable occupation.

He moved east of Tamalameque, through dense scrubland where the air vibrated with the constant hum of cicadas. The ground beneath his feet shifted unpredictably—at times treacherous mud, at others firm, sun-hardened earth.

Just as Carlos had described.

When he finally reached the outskirts of Las Pailitas, he slowed.

Before him lay a scattered collection of dwellings, each surrounded by small cultivated patches—just enough to sustain those who lived there.

Krugger observed in silence.

The sight was striking in its contrast: untamed jungle pressing relentlessly against fragile, human order. Each house, built of mud and thatch, stood like a small fortress, encircled by plantain leaves and tall stalks of corn that swayed in the heavy air.

These were not the orderly estates of Europe.

These were positions carved out of necessity—fragile, temporary, and constantly contested.

Between the towering trunks of ceiba trees, the inhabitants had cleared narrow plots of dark, fertile soil.

Even the land seemed to struggle.

Cassava shrubs and tangled bean vines grew in uneven clusters, as if resisting the slow advance of the surrounding forest. Ferns crept inward. Shadows deepened beneath the canopy. Every inch reclaimed by cultivation appeared to demand constant effort to maintain.

The air itself felt dense—thick with the scent of damp earth, woodsmoke, and the sweetness of overripe fruit.

It stood in sharp contrast to the metallic, controlled atmosphere of the steelworks in Antioquia.

Krugger noted how sunlight broke through the canopy only in jagged shafts, illuminating isolated pockets of activity.

Within those fragments of light, the inhabitants moved with a measured, deliberate pace, shaped by heat and labor alike.

To an untrained eye, the place might appear peaceful—merely another rural settlement.

To Krugger, it was something else entirely.

A screen.

The scattered arrangement of the houses meant there was no central square to patrol, no obvious authority for the Spanish to control. Every field of corn could conceal supplies. Every rooftop could serve as a lookout.

Signals could be passed without words. Movement could be hidden without effort.

In such a place, an army could exist without being seen.

He tightened the straps of his pack.

Carlos had been right.

This was not merely a place of rest—it was natural camouflage.

Within this shifting labyrinth of green and shadow, a thousand men could gather, eat, and prepare for war, all while remaining invisible to the Viceroy’s gaze—lost in the vastness of the land itself.

One of the soldiers accompanying him, disguised as a guard, hesitated before speaking.

“Sir… this place is deep within the jungle.”

Krugger frowned slightly, turning just enough to acknowledge him.

“And what of it?” he asked.

The soldier let out a quiet breath before speaking.

“Sir, we must consider the men in San Andrés. They are not accustomed to this climate. The island is one thing—but this…” He gestured toward the dense jungle surrounding them. “This is something else entirely. When they arrive here, in terrain like this… I would expect half of them, perhaps more, to fall to sickness alone.”

Krugger listened in silence, his expression tightening slightly.

“Then we will require physicians,” he replied after a moment. “And herbs—many of them. Perhaps even the assistance of the indigenous, if we are to preserve the men.”

He paused, reconsidering.

“It may have been a mistake to rely so heavily on our own forces. The mestizos are better suited to this environment.”

The soldier nodded in agreement.

Facing the Spanish in battle was not their greatest concern. They were, after all, trained soldiers—disciplined, methodical, and capable of adapting, even against an enemy experienced in jungle warfare.

That, in time, could be learned.

But disease was another matter entirely.

It was an enemy no army had truly mastered.

Krugger exhaled slowly.

“There is little to be done now. They must fight. If they cannot…” He stopped briefly, then continued with less hesitation. “Then we would be bringing them here as settlers.”

His tone hardened.

“And that would be worse than death for most of them.”

He glanced briefly toward the jungle.

“A foreign farmer in New Granada, surrounded by Spaniards, mestizos, and indigenous groups… it is not a stable existence. If they prosper, they will invite envy. If they remain insignificant, they will invite contempt.”

A faint trace of impatience entered his voice.

“And these men were not trained for such a life. They were promised reward—wealth, recognition, perhaps even women. Strip that from them, and you will not have settlers… you will have rebellion.”

The guard leaned lightly against the loaded carriage, his gaze fixed on the dense, oppressive green before them.

“It is a curse, Captain,” he said. “In the end, we can do little but entrust our fevers to God.”

He hesitated, then added more thoughtfully:

“Still… whatever one may say of the Crown’s ministers, the Spaniards who first came here were made of a different kind of resolve. To leave Seville for this place—to face poisoned arrows, disease, and isolation… all for a king they would never see.”

He shook his head slightly.

“That spirit… it is not easily defeated.”

Krugger spat into the soil, his expression unmoved.

“You mistake necessity for valor,” he replied coldly.

“They were not heroes. They were men with nothing left to lose—second sons without inheritance, peasants without bread. They did not conquer this land through strength, but through persistence. They bled into it… until the land itself ceased resisting.”

He adjusted the concealed steel plate beneath his garments, more out of habit than need.

“They had the advantage of arriving first—and the sanction of the Church. That is all.”

His gaze hardened.

“If Brandenburg—or the Elector himself—had been given these lands, we would not have relied on prayer. We would have reshaped them. Drained the swamps. Carved canals through the earth. Turned the Magdalena into a road of iron.”

A brief pause followed.

“They fought for the past—for lineage and memory. We are here for something else.”

His voice lowered slightly.

“The future has no use for their kind of victory.”

The guard let out a quiet scoff, shaking his head.

“Sometimes, sir, you think too much of the mainland.”

He shifted his weight, his tone more pragmatic now.

“The Reconquista—if one wishes to call it that—was not simply a matter of will. It was a matter of numbers. Even if the people had been willing to sacrifice half their population to tame these lands… the Crown would not have allowed it.”

He glanced briefly toward Krugger.

“Men are not merely subjects—they are power. Lose too many here, and Prussia weakens in Europe.”

A faint pause.

“I doubt even His Majesty Frederick would have accepted such losses lightly.”

He exhaled, his voice settling.

“We should consider ourselves fortunate… to have what we have.”

Krugger gave a slow nod.

It was, in truth, a sound observation.

Prussia had never possessed the population required for such an undertaking—not even at the height of its strength. No matter the promise of gold, no ruler would willingly send thousands to perish in an untamed land so far removed from the heart of Europe.

Power, in the end, was always measured in men.

And the Electors were not known for restraint. Should one state weaken excessively, the others would descend upon it without hesitation—like wolves upon wounded prey—dividing what remained among themselves.

Perhaps, he thought, only a truly centralized Empire could have attempted such a venture.

He exhaled quietly.

“Population was never the true limitation, Sergeant,” Krugger said at last, his voice lowering into something more deliberate, almost reflective. “It was merely the symptom.”

He turned slightly, his gaze distant.

“The real affliction was division.”

A brief pause followed.

“We have had emperors who looked toward greatness—men who saw what could be achieved, only to be restrained by their own kin. Frederick II… Stupor Mundi.”

There was a trace of something sharper now—admiration, perhaps, or frustration.

“He possessed the mind of a philosopher and the ambition of a conqueror. Given the proper unity, he might have transformed the Mediterranean into a German dominion… perhaps even reached these shores before the first Spaniard set sail.”

Krugger’s expression hardened.

“But he was not defeated by his enemies. He was exhausted by them—by the Pope, by the Italian princes, by those who feared what he might become.”

He let the thought settle before continuing, more quietly:

“Men like him are not stopped by foreign powers… but by those closest to them.”

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