Chapter 267: A Failure In Mompox

The undercurrents of the world had begun to shift.

Other nations, watching from a careful distance, prepared their own moves. A man of genius—backed only by a distant colony, one regarded even by its own crown with suspicion—presented a rare opportunity. To claim such a mind without provoking open conflict… it was a temptation few could ignore.

Francisco had already proven his worth. Two significant improvements, three profitable enterprises —such achievements did not go unnoticed. To possess him within their own borders, under their own authority, was a prospect that stirred quiet ambition across Europe.

Francisco, for his part, was not ignorant of this growing attention. He understood well that the protection afforded by Göttingen was not without limit. Yet, amid the broader disorder of Europe, he allowed himself a measure of confidence.

From the fragments of history he had seen—those strange visions that guided his expectations—he believed that the great powers of the continent grew cautious in times of internal turmoil. Wars and unrest turned their gaze inward, not outward.

But in this, he misjudged.

Spain, still a formidable power, was neither indifferent nor patient. Neither he nor his father had been forgotten. And should another nation seize him, Spain would not necessarily intervene—at least not openly. Such matters, among empires, were seldom so straightforward.

Far from Europe, in New Granada, events had taken a darker turn.

After receiving Francisco’s letter regarding the appointment of the new viceroy, Kruger had not hesitated. He launched his attack upon Mompox with determination—but unlike before, the city was no longer vulnerable.

Its defenses had been strengthened considerably. As a vital center of commerce, the Spanish had fortified it with care, transforming it into a position far more difficult to breach. The result was devastating. Kruger’s forces suffered losses greater than any they had yet endured.

The humid air along the Magdalena River hung heavy, clinging to the skin like a damp shroud. Kruger spat into the murky water, his eyes reddened from sleepless nights and the acrid smoke of Spanish artillery.

He looked upon his remaining men—and felt his stomach tighten.

The losses during acclimatization had already weakened them. Nearly a fifth of his force had been lost before they had even truly engaged the enemy. But this…

This was ruin.

“One hundred men,” Kruger muttered, his voice hoarse, uneven. “Fifty Germans—men who survived the wars of Europe. And fifty mestizos, who knew this land as their own.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “Gone… in a single afternoon.”

He crouched and seized a handful of mud from the riverbank, squeezing it until it slipped between his fingers. Francisco’s warning returned to him then—not as exaggeration, but as something far too mild for what they had faced.

“They were waiting for us,” he growled, turning to his remaining lieutenant. “The Spanish are no longer playing at governance. They have remembered how to be soldiers.”

His gaze lifted toward the city. The stone walls of Mompox stood firm, almost indifferent, as though mocking his efforts.

In Europe, sieges followed a certain order—measured, predictable. You broke a wall, and the city yielded. But here…

Here, the heat drained a man’s strength before the battle began. The insects brought sickness. The land itself seemed hostile. And the Spanish—

They appeared as though conjured from the jungle itself, their numbers never truly diminishing.

“Fall back to the marshes,” Kruger ordered at last, the words bitter upon his tongue. “We will not take this city by force—not today. If we remain under these guns, we shall have no army left by dawn.”

He drew a breath, steadying himself.

“We wait for darkness. And we wait for word from Göttingen. If the rest of the army cannot recover its strength…” He did not finish the thought, but the meaning lingered plainly enough.

Everything could be lost.

At that moment, a scout came running, breathless, urgency plain upon his face.

“Sir,” he called, barely managing the words, “there is a problem—reinforcements are approaching.”

Kruger seized the scout by the lapels of his sweat-soaked tunic, pulling him close.

“From where?” he demanded sharply. “Speak clearly, man.”

“The river, sir!” the scout gasped, raising a trembling hand toward the north, where the Magdalena disappeared into a veil of mist. “Signals from the watchtowers. A flotilla—champanes and light brigantines. They bear the colors of the Cartagena garrison… and reinforcements from the Fort of San Luis.”

Kruger released him and turned his gaze toward the river.

There, faint but unmistakable, came the steady beat of drums—carried over the water in a slow, relentless rhythm. It was not the disordered sound of local militias, but the measured cadence of trained infantry. Fresh troops. Disciplined. Sent to reinforce a city already proving far more resilient than expected.

“Damn it…” Kruger muttered under his breath before raising his voice. “Quickly—across the river. We cannot take Mompox today.”

He exhaled sharply, frustration evident in the set of his jaw.

“I believed two hundred men would suffice,” he added, more quietly. “That was… an error.”

His gaze drifted briefly over the field behind them, where too many of his soldiers now lay still. Nearly half of those he had brought were gone. The realization weighed heavily, though he allowed himself no more than a moment to feel it.

The men obeyed without hesitation. Their numbers, already reduced, allowed for a swift withdrawal. Crossing the river proved manageable, and the far bank—previously secured by Kruger’s forces—offered a temporary refuge.

As expected, the Spanish reinforcements made no immediate attempt to pursue. Instead, they entered Mompox, reinforcing its defenses with methodical efficiency.

From across the water, Kruger watched as activity increased along the city walls. His expression tightened.

“The next assault will be harder,” he said, almost to himself. “We shall require artillery. I did not expect them to erect stone fortifications before our arrival.” He shook his head faintly. “Whoever directs this… understands their weaknesses well. Bogotá may rely on its mountains, but this port—this is a vital artery. They mean to hold it at all costs.”

One of his officers, who had managed to retreat alongside him, spoke with visible unease. “Do you believe Viceroy Ezpeleta has grown more capable… or that he has found someone who is?”

Kruger gave a short, humorless breath. “Who can say? What matters is that the difficulty has increased—and with it, the cost.” He glanced once more toward the city. “We can no longer rely on Cartagena for supplies. After this, there is no ambiguity. Carlos and the Spanish Crown stand as our enemies.”

There was a note of regret beneath his words—not for the conflict itself, but for the lost advantage.

Silence followed among the officers and soldiers. The preventive strike on Mompox had failed—and failed badly.

“We need cannons,” Kruger said at last, his tone sharpening once more. “Send word to those fools in San Andrés. Enough with dispatching men—we have no shortage of bodies to bury. What we require is a means to break those walls.”

One of the soldiers hesitated before speaking. “Sir… it appears they are using Carlos’s cement. I am not certain artillery alone will be sufficient to bring it down.”

Kruger fell silent.

The irony did not escape him. To be hindered by materials born of their own efforts… yet, upon reflection, it was inevitable. In war, anything of strength and utility would be claimed and repurposed. And Carlos, for all his foresight, could hardly have ceased production. Armies required resources, and resources required coin.

Thus, it followed that not only the Spanish army, but the various factions across New Granada, would soon possess their own supply of cement for fortifications. With that realization, the campaign itself seemed to grow more complex, its difficulties multiplying with each passing day.

“Enough,” Kruger said at last, drawing a slow breath. “We withdraw and take rest. What we require now are cannons. From our position, we may bombard those walls. Even without sending men, it will be sufficient to sow panic within the city.”

With that, he turned and made his way toward his tent.

Inside, the air was thick and unmoving. A single candle burned upon the desk, its unsteady flame casting long, irregular shadows against the canvas walls. Kruger removed his gloves slowly, then sat, the weight of the day settling upon him all at once.

For a moment, he remained still. Then, reaching for a sheet of parchment, he began to write.

Carlos,

The game is over. You can no longer conceal your intentions, nor can we pretend otherwise. We have failed in our attempt to take Mompox swiftly, as we had hoped.

The Spanish have turned our own cement against us. What was once a tool of advantage has become a barrier we could not overcome. They have taken Francisco’s formula and shaped it into a cage.

After tonight’s engagement, there can be no doubt—we stand as enemies of the Crown. You must act accordingly. Call openly for independence. Such a declaration will draw those who already think as you do and may strengthen our position among the other factions.

It is time to abandon the pretense that we serve Spain.

If we are to survive—and if we are to take Mompox—then we must prepare for a different war. There is, I believe, a capable mind now advising the Viceroy. The defenses we encountered were not improvised. They were deliberate.

Given what we have seen, it is certain that other key cities will follow the same course. They will fortify themselves with cement, just as Mompox has done. Smaller towns may not warrant such effort, but the principal centers will.

You must plan accordingly. This will no longer be a war of movement alone, but one of sieges and control.

—Kruger

Kruger read the letter once more before sealing it with a firm press of his signet.

He sat back, watching the wax harden in the dim light.

There was no longer any advantage in maintaining the illusion of loyalty. Whatever fragile balance had existed before was gone. And now—

Now there was not only the Spanish Crown to contend with, but the presence of an unseen strategist, one whose influence had already begun to reshape the conflict.

Kruger extinguished the candle slowly, the darkness settling around him as the thought lingered.

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