In the end, the Director consented—if only for the revenue the steel promised, and, perhaps more urgently, to prevent Hannover from reclaiming the autonomy its citizens had fought so hard to secure. Yet the matter was not so simple as erecting a factory and declaring the work begun.
The university was first obliged to negotiate with the proprietors of the Harz Mountains.
The Harz was a complex jigsaw of jurisdictions, its authority divided and often contested. Most significant among its holders was the Electorate of Brunswick-Lüneburg—more commonly known as the Electorate of Hannover. In practical terms, this meant the mines belonged, at least nominally, to King George III of Great Britain.
For Francisco and the Director, this reality cut both ways. On one hand, they operated within the same political sphere. On the other, the British guarded their mineral wealth with habitual caution, preferring to ship raw ore northward to be processed in their own sanctioned foundries. Now that Göttinga possessed a measure of autonomy—limited though it was—it would undoubtedly prove difficult to obtain permission.
There remained the question of fuel.
At present, they could rely only upon charcoal. But to produce ten tons of steel, the required quantity would be immense—enough, by some estimates, to strip Göttinga's forests bare within a decade or two. Even if the university consented, the populace would not. The cost, both practical and political, would be intolerable.
Thus Francisco found himself compelled to consider another possibility: coke.
The substance was spoken of in half-knowledge and speculation—murmured in the taverns of port cities and debated in the halls of the Royal Society. To some, it was little short of a philosopher's stone.
Rumors from Sheffield and Coalbrookdale passed from mouth to mouth like ghost stories. It was said the English had discovered a means to transform "devil's stone" into a fire that never slept—a heat fierce enough to melt the very gates of Hell. Some claimed it required secret salts; others insisted the iron it produced was cursed, brittle as glass and foul beyond bearing.
Francisco dismissed most of it as exaggeration—fear dressed in invention. Yet he could not ignore the possibility that there was truth beneath the noise. If steel could be understood through chemistry, then perhaps this too followed some principle, however obscured.
The difficulty lay in uncovering it.
To recreate such a process from nothing would demand time, resources, and a degree of certainty they did not possess.
He fell silent for a moment, considering. Then, quite suddenly, he spoke.
"We may purchase the coke—and the iron—directly from Britain."
Christian looked at him, his brow tightening. "Coke? You require it for the factory?"
Francisco inclined his head. "It is not that charcoal is unusable. But you are aware of its cost—particularly to the land itself. If we depend upon it entirely, we shall exhaust our forests. Coke, if the reports are to be believed, is derived from coal. And coal exists in far greater abundance—even here in Hannover."
Christian considered this, then gave a slow nod. "It would please the British," he said at last. "Dependence would grant them a measure of control over Göttinga."
He exhaled quietly, his gaze drifting for a moment before returning. "And we do not wish to sever their protection. Only to ensure authority over the university—and its students."
There was no need to elaborate further. The United Kingdom stood as a formidable power, and its shadow alone deterred interference with the city. To provoke one's protector was an unwise course.
Yet the university—committed as it was to the instruction of any who sought knowledge, and a growing center of Enlightenment thought in eastern Europe—could not abandon its obligations to its students. Some balance had to be struck.
The factory, it seemed, might serve that purpose.
It would bind Göttinga's interests more closely to those of Britain, strengthening their relationship rather than undermining it.
Once the plan had been agreed upon, work began in earnest.
At first, the British showed little enthusiasm. A factory in Göttinga would increase the city's wealth, and with it, its independence from Hannover. Such developments were not encouraged lightly.
But by the beginning of 1795, circumstances had shifted.
The French had conquered the Netherlands, altering the balance of power across Europe. The rapid rise of the French Republic stirred unease in London, and new considerations took precedence.
In this changing climate, Britain accepted the arrangement.
The reasoning was simple enough. The necessary resources remained firmly in British hands: coke from the north of England, and mineral ore from the Harz. Should their authority over Hannover or Göttinga be threatened, they could restrict these supplies at will.
Control, in other words, was preserved.
They did, however, require a concession—a share in the factory itself.
Francisco and Christian, after a brief exchange and without protest, accepted.
In the Americas, the situation was no less unsettled.
The United States stood deeply divided. The Jay Treaty, signed in late 1794 and still under debate in the Senate in the opening months of 1795, sought to avert another war with Great Britain. To the Federalists, it was a necessary compromise—an instrument to secure trade and preserve stability. To men such as Thomas Jefferson, it was nothing short of a betrayal, a quiet surrender of the very principles upon which independence had been won.
Yet even this discord was overshadowed by events in New Granada.
There, the authority of the Spanish Empire had begun to erode in earnest. Distance, neglect, and complacency had hollowed its control, leaving behind only the appearance of power. In Bogotá, one man chose to act upon that weakness.
Antonio Nariño did more than speak of liberty. He stood at the heart of the viceregal capital and printed the Rights of Man—a text that stripped the King of his sacred authority and reduced monarchy to something human, and therefore fallible. Antonio Nariño His translation and distribution of the document, first undertaken in 1793, had already stirred political thought across the colony and brought swift repression upon him.
To those in the streets, it felt as though the ground itself had shifted.
But for those watching from the fractured edges of the territory, it was something else entirely—a signal.
A beginning.
And perhaps, a war.
Nowhere was the impact felt more sharply than among the men of the incoming viceroy, still gathered in Cartagena. The declaration acted as a fuse already set alight. The viceroy himself had yet to arrive—it would be months before he reached New Granada—but the opposing forces had already begun to move, each preparing to expand its influence before authority could be reasserted.
Among them, none felt the weight more heavily than Baltasar.
Sent as an envoy to preserve what remained of the colony, he had already suffered losses—Mompox, Banca—and each report seemed only to confirm the same truth: the ground was slipping beneath them. Now, with Nariño's declaration spreading through the capital, the situation appeared darker still.
His expression hardened as he turned to those gathered around him.
"How stand the preparations in Bogotá—and in Venezuela?"
No one answered at once.
The men in the room shifted uneasily. Most had served under Ezpeleta and were merely waiting for the new viceroy to arrive, hoping—quietly, almost shamefully—to be relieved of responsibility. For many of them, New Granada had never been more than a temporary station.
A waiting room.
To the Spanish elite, Bogotá was not a land to be shaped, but endured—a place of comfortable exile. A "retirement" for aging generals, or a necessary inconvenience for ambitious young aristocrats seeking to adorn their careers with a few years of overseas service before returning to Madrid or Naples, where true power resided.
Here, life moved differently.
Days passed in languid complaint—about the thin Andean air, the absence of proper theaters, the distance from Europe. Administration became routine, then neglectful, and at last hollow. Roads fell into disrepair. Discontent grew, quietly at first, then with increasing boldness.
They did not see it.
Or perhaps they chose not to.
They had never intended to remain long enough to witness the consequences.
They were, in essence, governors in transit—men more concerned with the quality of imported wine than the stability of the land beneath their authority.
But after the loss of the Magdalena River, even that illusion had begun to crack.
Careers—once secure—now hung in uncertainty. For the older officials, it mattered little; many stood already at the edge of retirement. But for the younger men, it was something closer to ruin.
Worse still, they were unprepared.
They had trained for wars of empire—naval engagements, distant campaigns—not for a conflict upon this soil, against enemies shaped by European methods. The so-called fanatics bore Italian training and arms; Carlos commanded forces equipped and disciplined under German and British influence.
Against such opponents, their plans felt inadequate—almost naive.
Baltasar watched them in silence.
"They have spent a decade sleeping in silk sheets," he thought, his gaze lingering on a colonel struggling to maintain his composure in the oppressive heat. "And while they rested… the world was taken from them."
At last, one of the officers raised his hand, hesitant but resolute.
"Could we not simply punish this man—Antonio?" he asked carefully. "He remains in Bogotá, under our authority. Would it not be… simpler… to contain the situation there?"
