Chapter 270: Traitors In Mompox
For three days, the elites conferred among themselves—though "conference" was perhaps too generous a word for what unfolded. It was, in truth, a prolonged hesitation.
Rebellion was not a term they treated lightly.
For men accustomed to comfort and security, it carried a weight far greater than for those with nothing to lose. A common man might gamble his life and, in failing, lose only that. But for them... the cost was immeasurably higher.
If they rebelled and failed, it would not end with their own deaths. Their families would follow. Their estates would be seized, their names erased. Generations of wealth and influence would vanish in a single stroke.
And should any survive, survival itself would be a humiliation—reduced to the life of an ordinary laborer, working long hours for little reward.
Yet remaining was no simple choice either.
Most of their wealth lay in lands now under Carlos’s control. To abandon them meant surrendering not only property, but the foundation of their status. Some considered fleeing to Cartagena, trusting that the Spanish Crown might one day reclaim those territories. But such hope was uncertain. If the Crown failed, they would lose everything—and perhaps be forced to abandon the continent entirely.
It was a decision not merely of politics, but of existence.
For the first time in many years, these seasoned men—accustomed to calculation and control—found themselves uncertain.
News from Mompox only deepened their doubts. The failure of Kruger’s assault spread quickly through their networks. Until then, many had believed the Spanish forces in New Granada to be weakened by corruption and inefficiency. But the defense of Mompox had proven otherwise. The Crown, it seemed, still possessed both discipline and capable leadership.
Where once some might have leaned toward Carlos, now hesitation prevailed.
Even after the three days he had granted, no clear answer emerged. A week passed... then more. By the second, their indecision had only hardened.
Carlos, for his part, did not act against them. Not yet. To move against the elites without securing at least partial support would be reckless—particularly while the campaign around Mompox remained unresolved.
While the elites of the north debated in candlelit rooms, far to the south, Kruger stood amid a scorched clearing.
The long-awaited reinforcements had arrived—but not in the form of men.
Steel had come instead.
Heavy British campaign cannons, dragged with great difficulty through swamps and rough terrain, now stood in a grim line. Their iron mouths faced a mock fortification Kruger had ordered constructed—a thick wall of the same Roman cement the Spanish had used to strengthen Mompox.
"Colonel, the batteries are primed!" a German engineer called out over the low rush of the nearby river.
Kruger gave no reply.
He simply lowered his hand.
The response was immediate.
The thunder of the cannons shattered the stillness of the jungle. The ground trembled beneath the force of the discharge, and flocks of startled birds erupted into the sky. A solid iron ball—twenty-four pounds of forged mass—struck the wall with tremendous force.
A traditional stone structure would have splintered under such impact, breaking into lethal fragments.
But this was not stone.
Francisco’s cement behaved differently. It did not shatter—it absorbed. The ball drove itself deep into the grey surface, cracking it in a web of fractures, yet leaving the structure standing.
Kruger exhaled slowly, watching the result with narrowed eyes.
"As I suspected," he said at last. "This will make the assault... considerably more difficult."
He stepped closer, studying the embedded shot.
"Even with some of the most advanced British artillery, it is insufficient to bring down such material. It is no wonder the Italians attempt to replicate this ’Roman’ cement... nor that Carlos sustains an entire army through its trade."
One of the senior engineers—a man who had witnessed the carnage of the Seven Years’ War—stepped forward and ran a gloved hand along the unyielding surface.
"If Berlin had held a monopoly on this ’Roman cement’ during the wars against Austria," he murmured, his voice carrying both admiration and regret, "the map of Europe might look very different today."
A few of the soldiers behind him nodded in quiet agreement. Low voices followed—speculations, fragments of memory, the familiar what ifs of men who had survived too many campaigns to believe in chance alone.
The moment was interrupted by the sudden approach of a scout.
He moved quickly through the clearing, heading directly toward Kruger. At once, the general’s guards stepped forward, muskets raised. The man halted, lifting both hands.
"I bear information," he said, breathing hard. "For the General alone."
Kruger regarded him with narrowed eyes. Scouts were trained to report through proper channels; it was uncommon—almost improper—for one to seek him out directly. Such behavior meant one of two things: either a trap... or intelligence of considerable importance.
"Search him," Kruger ordered calmly. "Remove any weapons. Then bring him to my tent."
Without waiting further, he turned and walked toward the command tent.
The soldiers exchanged brief glances, then carried out the order. After a thorough search, they escorted the man inside.
The air within the tent was heavy—thick with the scent of damp canvas, oil, and lingering gunpowder.
Kruger sat behind a simple field desk, one hand resting near his pistol as the scout entered. The man’s appearance spoke of hardship—his clothes torn by thorns and undergrowth—but his eyes were alert, almost feverish with urgency.
The scout dropped briefly to one knee, then rose.
"General," he began in a low voice, "I come from within Mompox itself. Not all within those walls are loyal to the Viceroy. The family of Gutiérrez de Piñeres sends word. They have observed your artillery... and they have heard of Carlos’s message from the mountains."
Kruger’s expression hardened slightly.
"And why," he asked, "would a family of such standing risk the gallows for Carlos’s cause?"
The scout allowed himself a faint, knowing smile.
"Because of the arrangement, Excellency. Word has reached them that Carlos does not intend to crown himself king—nor to strip the elites of their position. They have heard of what he calls the Cincinnatus Mandate."
Kruger frowned faintly.
"The Cincinnatus mandate?" he repeated. "Some Roman notion, is it not?"
The scout gave a small shrug. It was clear the historical reference meant little to him.
But Kruger did not require explanation.
He understood the principle well enough.
"The elites would retain control of civil affairs," the scout continued. "Councils, taxation, the courts... all would remain in their hands. Meanwhile, you—and Carlos—would command the army and direct the war. They would rather govern a new nation than remain overlooked servants of an Empire in decline."
Kruger fell silent for a moment.
He was not entirely pleased. A monarchy would have offered greater clarity—greater unity. Yet this arrangement... it was not without merit.
At the very least, Carlos had not been foolish enough to divide control of the army.
That, more than anything, reassured him.
And if the elites could be persuaded—if they chose to cooperate rather than resist—then the conquest of New Granada, and the founding of a new state, might proceed far more swiftly than he had anticipated.
The night air in Mompox lay heavy with humidity, carrying the faint sweetness of jasmine. Yet within the high-walled courtyard of the Piñeres estate, the atmosphere was far from tranquil.
Tension lingered, thick and unrelenting.
Gabriel Gutiérrez de Piñeres sat in a carved cedar chair, his posture composed as he methodically polished a silver signet ring. His movements were steady, deliberate—almost indifferent to the weight of the moment.
Across from him, his son and heir paced the stone tiles. Germán’s boots struck the ground in a restless rhythm. Youth showed clearly in him—along with unease he could not fully conceal.
"Father... this is madness," Germán said at last, lowering his voice as though the walls themselves might listen. He stopped before him. "We are opening our doors to a German mercenary—and to a merchant who calls himself a dictator."
He hesitated, then continued.
"If the Crown prevails, our heads will rot along the Albarrada. And if Carlos succeeds... we will be traitors to our own blood. Why abandon the King—for a man we scarcely know?"
Gabriel raised his eyes slowly. There was no anger in them—only something colder, more enduring.
"Safety?" he repeated quietly. "You believe we are safe, Germán?"
He set the ring aside and rose from his chair.
"The governors sent from Cádiz look upon us and see little more than coin to be extracted—and subjects to be ignored." He gestured faintly toward the courtyard. "We are called elites, yet we belong to a world that is already passing."
Gabriel walked to the window, his gaze settling upon the dark line of the river. In the distance, the echo of Kruger’s artillery still rolled faintly through the night.
"Listen carefully," he said, his voice measured. "The King is across an ocean—and with each passing year, his reach weakens. Carlos is here."
He turned slightly, though his eyes remained distant.
"He commands an army that moves with the precision of a clock. And then is his son Francisco—a man who can turn mud into stone and fruits into flavour."
A brief pause followed.
"You ask why I betray the King?" Gabriel said. "I do not betray him."
He turned fully now, facing his son.
"I exchange him."
He stepped closer, raising a hand to point—not harshly, but with unmistakable emphasis.
"Carlos offers what the Crown never has. Under Spain, we possess wealth—but no true authority. Under this ’Cincinnatus’ system..." He allowed a faint breath. "We would govern. The councils, the courts, the treasury—these would fall under our direction."
His tone grew firmer.
"Carlos has no interest in administering cities. He seeks to wage war. For that, he requires stability behind him. He requires us."
Germán frowned, his unease deepening rather than easing.
"And when the war ends?" he asked carefully. "If we declare independence—and afterward he turns against us—we will have no army with which to defend ourselves."
Gabriel’s expression tightened slightly.
It was a question he had already considered—and one for which there was no comfortable answer.
"I am aware," he said at last. "And I do not welcome the separation between the elites and the army. Carlos, in particular, is careful—he intends to secure military power beyond our reach."
He paused, exhaling quietly.
"He claims he does not wish to be king. Yet a man who commands the army... becomes one in all but name."
For a moment, silence returned.
Then Gabriel shook his head faintly.
"Even so... we have little choice. If we remain as we are, the Crown may one day strip us of everything to fund its endless wars in Europe. And this new Viceroy..." His voice hardened. "He is not a man who negotiates. He is a man who punishes first, and questions after."
Gabriel looked once more toward the dark river beyond the walls.
"We cannot wager our lives on such a man."
