The Andes Dream-Chapter 226: Isabella Plan

"It is a shame," one officer said, half in jest and half in admiration, "that such talent was born in the wrong time. Had she been born before muskets, perhaps we would have our own Joan of Arc."

The men murmured in agreement.

Krugger sighed.

"That would not have ended well," he replied. "If the Teutonic Knights had heard of a young saint rising in their lands, she might have suffered a fate worse than Joan of Arc. In that sense, it is better she was born in our era."

The officers nodded. History was not kind to women who inspired armies — especially in the Germanic lands, where zeal and ruthlessness often walked together.

Krugger straightened in his chair.

"Now," he said firmly, "we must discuss San Andrés."

The mood shifted immediately.

"The latest reports are troubling. Many of the soldiers there have fallen ill. Several are already dead. Supplies on the island are nearly exhausted, and the local major is growing impatient with their presence."

Another officer frowned.

"I have heard the men are becoming restless. Some have clashed with the natives. If the situation escalates, the major may appeal to either the Spanish or the British for intervention."

Silence fell over the tent.

Krugger nodded grimly.

"That is precisely why we must bring them here. But between Urabá and our territory stand those cursed fanatics. With the Boquerón passage closed, the only alternative is crossing the full mountain range. When we came through, we lost twenty men — and we were fortunate."

He exhaled slowly.

"I cannot imagine the casualties if we attempt to move nearly two thousand."

One officer leaned forward.

"Your son-in-law controls Rionegro now. Does that not open another route?"

Murmurs of cautious hope spread through the tent.

Krugger shook his head.

"It does — but it is painfully slow. To reach the Magdalena, the troops must sail from Barranquilla in small champanes, then travel upriver toward Rionegro. At best, we can move two to three hundred men per month."

He tapped the table thoughtfully.

"Even if we assume only fifteen hundred survive, at two hundred per month, we would need at least seven months to extract them all."

Again, silence.

Some officers reached for tobacco. Others requested coffee — one of the few consistent pleasures of New Granada, fresh from the Antioquian mountains each morning.

Outside, the roar of training continued — steel striking steel, boots pounding earth. The camp breathed war.

A large map lay spread across the center of the table. Rivers twisted like veins; mountain ranges cut across the land like scars. But few of the Prussian officers truly understood the geography. They knew European plains and forests — not tropical rivers and impassable jungles.

Hours passed with little progress.

By evening, the officers retired to their quarters, some intending to consult the New Granadian recruits for local insight.

Krugger remained alone in the tent.

He sipped his coffee slowly and reviewed reports by lamplight.

The flap of the tent moved almost silently.

Distracted, he did not notice the small figure slipping inside.

Light footsteps approached from behind.

Two small hands suddenly covered his eyes.

Krugger stiffened — his body reacting before his mind. His hand twitched toward the dagger at his side.

But the size of the hands stopped him.

He relaxed, exhaling softly.

"Guess who I am," said a small, playful voice from behind him.

Krugger allowed himself a rare smile — stiff and unfamiliar on a face carved by war. He had heard of the open affection common in Spanish families, but he had never imagined his own granddaughter playing childish games with a man who smelled of oil, gunpowder, and old steel.

"I suspect," he said gravely, "it is the little girl who nearly cost me my authority before the recruits this morning."

Isabella giggled, her hands still covering his eyes.

"Forgive me, Grandfather. But you were the one who said I must always use the best of my abilities — even in practice. You said that if I teach my body to hold back, it might hesitate in battle. And hesitation kills."

Krugger gently removed her hands and turned to face her. His expression carried both pride and a quiet, sobering awareness.

"You are correct," he admitted. "A blade that learns to be dull in training will never be sharp in war."

He studied her carefully.

"You have the heart of a Prussian, Isabella. Now we shall see if you possess the mind of one."

Her expression shifted immediately.

To conceal her reaction, she threw her head back and sighed dramatically.

"Grandfather, I am exhausted," she declared, wiping imaginary sweat from her brow. "Today’s training was brutal. All I desire is a warm bath. I must smell dreadful."

To emphasize her point, she lifted her arm, sniffed loudly, and recoiled in exaggerated horror.

"See? I smell worse than Father’s mules after returning from a long journey!"

Krugger’s lips curved slightly — not kindly, but with dry amusement.

"In Prussia," he said calmly, "during campaign season, I have gone months without a proper bath. Water was for drinking, not luxury. One evening without bathing will not harm you."

He stepped closer.

"You claim you wish to be a general, not merely a soldier. Then you must train not only your body, but your mind. A general does not retreat because she smells unpleasant."

Isabella sighed again — theatrically — then sat upright, chin raised in exaggerated dignity.

"Very well," she said proudly. "Ask me, Grandfather. I am ready."

Krugger gave her a long look. Inwardly, he muttered that such bold confidence was very Spanish indeed. A Prussian child would never present herself so openly before an elder.

But he said nothing.

Instead, he unfolded the map across the table.

"We have a problem," he began.

He pointed to San Andrés.

"Here. We have many troops stationed on this island."

Then his finger traced inland toward Medellín.

"And we must bring them here."

His hand moved toward Cartagena.

"But we must remain distant from Cartagena. For now, it is beyond our reach."

He tapped the region between Urabá and the mountains.

"Here lie the fanatics. Since the fall of Boquerón, direct passage is nearly impossible. Even if we subdued them, transporting two thousand men through those mountains would bleed us dry."

He looked at her steadily.

"We have considered the Magdalena route — slow and limited. Two to three hundred men per month at best."

He leaned back.

"So tell me, Isabella."

"If you were in command... how would you bring them home?"

Isabella studied the map in silence. Her father, Carlos, had spared no expense in her education — and the chart before them was no crude sketch, but a professional rendering of the Viceroyalty. She knew its rivers, reefs, and mountain passes as well as other girls knew courtly dances.

After a long pause, her finger moved eastward — far from the Spanish guns of Cartagena.

"Grandfather," she said calmly, "why are we trying to break through a locked front door when the side gate stands open?"

Her finger tapped the Captaincy of Venezuela.

"Instead of bleeding our men dry in the western mountains, why not seize Maracaibo... or Coro?"

She looked up, ambition flickering in her eyes.

"If we control the Venezuelan coast, we bypass Cartagena entirely. We enter from the east, move along the rivers, and turn the Arangos’ flank before they even realize Prussian steel has touched their shores. Why limit ourselves to Rionegro when we could take the ports that feed half the Empire?"

Krugger frowned.

"My dear little lady," he replied carefully, "there stands the Castle of San Carlos on the peninsula. Its cannons command the waters. If we attempt a landing, those guns could tear our ships apart. And even if we slipped past them, without secure supply lines we would be trapped. The Spaniards could blockade us and force surrender."

Isabella listened without interruption.

Then she tilted her head slightly.

"Then why don’t we take the castle?" she asked simply. "Is it impossible?"

Krugger stared at her.

For a brief moment, he wondered why that had not been his first instinct.

In Prussia, when a fortress blocked his path, the answer had always been direct: attack first, negotiate later. Yet since arriving in New Granada, he had grown cautious. The jungle, the rivers, the climate — everything here could kill. That caution had slowly crept into his thinking.

But caution, he realized, should be reserved for nature.

Not for Spaniards.

He narrowed his eyes.

"We do not know the terrain well enough," he said. "And at present, we lack sufficient troops."

Isabella answered in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Then bring enough troops through the Magdalena. You do not need the entire force from San Andrés — only enough to seize the castle. Once it falls, Maracaibo becomes vulnerable. After that, the sea belongs to us, and you can transport the remaining soldiers safely."

The simplicity of the answer hung in the air.

Krugger studied her quietly.

So direct. So ruthless.

He felt a strange mixture of pride and unease. That line of thought — eliminate the strongest obstacle first, seize the artery, then expand — was unmistakably Prussian in spirit.

How much of that blood truly ran in her veins?

He allowed himself the smallest nod.

"Perhaps," he murmured, "I have been staring too long at the mountains."