Chapter 283: Abandoning Bogotá

Baltasar answered at last, his tone measured, though fatigue weighed beneath it.

“We have already sent him to prison. To kill him would do us no good. It would make him a martyr—and at a time when revolutionary sentiment spreads through every colony, such an act would only provoke more unrest. We have enough to contend with as it is—with the fanatics, and with this man, Carlos.”

The room fell silent.

No one offered a reply. It was not agreement, but paralysis. The same indifference—the same quiet detachment—that had brought many of them across the ocean now held them in place. To these men, New Granada had become a problem they no longer wished to solve. They endured it, nothing more, marking time until the next ship might carry them back to Cádiz.

The silence grew heavy, close and oppressive, carrying the faint odor of old parchment and the sweat of uneasy men.

Then, unexpectedly, it was broken.

“If I may, Your Excellencies…”

The voice did not belong to any colonel or magistrate. It came from a young clerk—no more than twenty—who had until now remained unnoticed in the corner, quietly arranging documents. His name was Julián.

He stepped forward into the light.

Several of the older officials glanced at him with open disdain, but Baltasar raised a hand, granting him leave to speak.

“We are treating Nariño as a hero by keeping him in the public eye,” Julián said. His voice was steady—careful, but not timid. “A hero exists only so long as the people are given reason to blame us for his suffering.”

A faint murmur passed through the room, though no one interrupted.

“My suggestion,” he continued, “is to grant him a kind of… golden cage.”

He paused briefly, choosing his words.

“Do not kill him. But do not confine him to a damp cell where his discomfort may be imagined—or exaggerated—by the common people. Instead, move him to a comfortable residence. Place him under house arrest, and present it publicly as an act of the King’s mercy.”

Some of the men shifted, uncertain.

“Give him comfort,” Julián added, more quietly. “And then—ignore him. The more importance we grant him, the more followers he will gather. There is already radicalism enough in New Granada. We need not encourage it further.”

He moved toward the table and rested a hand upon the map, though he did not point to Bogotá.

Instead, his finger traced northward.

“Carlos is the greater threat,” he said, his tone sharpening slightly. “He controls the Magdalena routes. He has already severed our communication with Bogotá—and with the southern territories of the colony. If this continues, Spain will lose its hold over the region entirely.”

He shifted his hand again, indicating Maracaibo and the Captaincy of Venezuela.

“If he secures Maracaibo, it will not matter how many troops we send. They will be able to block all support. This would not mean the loss of New Granada alone—but potentially all of South America.”

A sharp scoff broke the air.

One of the officers leaned forward, unable to contain himself. “Please,” he said, with thinly veiled contempt. “They would not dare take a port. They may find success on land—with the assistance of European adventurers—but at sea we remain unchallenged. If they attempt such a move, our navy will drive them back into the mountains where they belong.”

Several others nodded in agreement. There was irritation in their expressions—not only at the suggestion itself, but at the presumption of the one who made it.

A clerk. A boy.

Baltasar said nothing at first.

He looked at Julián, then allowed his gaze to pass slowly over the assembled officials.

And in that quiet moment, something became clear to him.

The boy’s proposal was precise—cold in its logic, but effective. It removed the danger of a martyr and reduced a symbol to irrelevance. More importantly, it identified the true threat to Spanish authority.

Yet the men before him did not see it.

Or refused to.

They did not seek to understand the strategy—they sought only to dismiss it.

“He is right,” Baltasar said at last, almost in a whisper, as though the thought had only just settled into place. One could nearly hear the movement of his mind behind the words.

“For the moment, our priority must be to halt Carlos’s advance. He has shown greater unity, greater discipline—and he is the one who has taken the most territory from us.”

He paused, his gaze fixed upon the map.

“The fanatics… are weak by comparison. They do not yet represent a decisive threat—at least not for now. The new viceroy will arrive with European mercenaries—Swiss, by report. They are a serious force. With them, even the Prussians would find it difficult to continue as they have.”

A faint murmur passed through the room.

“But mercenaries require ground to stand upon,” Baltasar continued, more firmly now. “Without territory, they are of no use to us. Therefore, I will send orders to move troops from the Río de la Plata toward Maracaibo and the Captaincy General of Venezuela. We must ensure that Carlos cannot maneuver freely within New Granada.”

The officers exchanged uneasy glances.

At length, one of them spoke.

“Sir… we cannot do that.”

Baltasar’s eyes shifted toward him, narrowing slightly.

“The Río de la Plata is under the authority of Pedro Melo de Portugal y Villena—a Duke. By neither rank nor title do we possess the authority to command him. Moreover, they are already facing difficulties with the Italian—Giovanni. It seems they have suffered several defeats and are now on heightened alert against this new enemy.”

Baltasar fell silent.

He understood the truth of it immediately. Even his own superior would struggle to command a duke—much less an envoy operating at the fringes of authority. Once again, they found themselves in the same position: responsible for defending a territory, yet lacking the means to do so.

For a brief moment, no one spoke.

Then Julián stepped forward again.

There was hesitation in his movement—but also something else. He had seen the fear in the room, and where others shrank from it, he seemed to find purpose.

“If we cannot draw troops from the south,” he said, carefully, “then we must consider what we already hold.”

He extended his hand toward the map, his finger settling upon the Andean interior.

“Bogotá is strong in appearance—a fortress of stone and ideas. But militarily…” He paused, choosing his words. “It is a trap. The city is already half-radicalized by Nariño’s influence, and the people watch us with growing resentment. And with the Viceroy Ezpeleta is still in Cartagena, Bogotá has become a head without a body.”

He lifted his eyes to Baltasar.

“I propose that we evacuate the greater part of the Bogotá garrison.”

A sharp intake of breath moved through the room, but Julián did not stop.

“We leave the capital to itself. Let the radicalized students and the anxious elite contend with one another over Nariño’s ideas. Meanwhile, we move our forces east and north—toward the Captaincy General of Venezuela.”

The reaction was immediate—murmurs, disbelief, a few outright protests—but Julián pressed on, his voice gaining strength.

“Venezuela is where the true front lies. If we secure the plains and the coast of Caracas, we create a hammer. From there, we may strike back into the colonies with coordination and force.”

His finger shifted toward the Caribbean coast.

“We secure the ports. And if Francisco or Carlos attempt to move their steel—or their influence—they will be forced to confront Spanish bayonets before ever reaching the Magdalena.”

“You would abandon the capital?” an older colonel asked, his voice low, almost incredulous.

Julián met his gaze without hesitation.

“I would preserve the Empire.”

His tone was calm—cold, even.

“Bogotá is a symbol. Venezuela—and the ports—are the reality. If we remain here, we will be strangled—by the fanatics, and by Carlos’s army alike. But if we move to the coast, we regain breath. We allow the factions within New Granada to exhaust one another, while we rebuild our strength where it matters.”

A brief silence followed.

“We need not command a duke in the south,” he added quietly, “if we control the gateway to the Atlantic in the north.”

Baltasar did not respond at once.

He studied the boy—then the map—then the men around him.

The logic was unmistakable.

It was harsh, even ruthless. To abandon the interior was to concede it, at least for a time. It would leave New Granada to fracture further—to burn, perhaps, in a conflict between Carlos, the fanatics, and the remnants of Nariño’s followers.

Julián did not hesitate.

“We also retain control of Honda,” he continued, his voice steady, though the weight of his proposal lingered in the air. “Even if unrest overtakes Bogotá, our forces may still respond from the fort at Honda. It is a natural point of resistance.”

He rested his hand firmly upon the map.

The town, positioned along the Magdalena River, was no minor detail. It stood at a critical junction—where river and land routes converged, a node through which supplies, communication, and authority flowed between the interior and the coast.

“We need only allow the chaos to consume Bogotá,” Julián went on, more quietly now. “And when it has exhausted itself, we return—not as oppressors, but as saviors. We restore order. And once that order is established… no one will dare disturb it again.”

A brief silence followed.

“All of this,” he added, “can be achieved by concentrating our forces in Venezuela.”

The room remained tense.

At last, one of the officers spoke, unable to restrain himself.

“And what if they do not destroy one another?” he asked. “What if they suppress their differences and unite? Or worse—what if they align themselves with Carlos?”

He stepped closer to the table, pointing sharply toward Honda.

“If they disrupt the supplies there—if Honda falls or is cut off—then that ’wall’ you speak of collapses with it. Carlos and his men could reach Bogotá in less than a month.”

The concern was not unfounded.

Control of Honda meant control of movement. It was the last major navigable point of the river toward the interior, a gateway through which the colony breathed.

Julián inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the objection.

“Then we leave agents behind,” he said. “Men loyal to the Crown—placed carefully among the factions. They will provoke division where unity threatens to form. And they will inform us of any movement before it becomes a danger.”

He paused.

“And if all else fails…”

His gaze settled once more upon the map, calm and deliberate.

“We prepare an ambush.”

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