The French patrol followed the twenty-five vessels until they were well beyond French waters. During that long escort, tension never truly faded. Muskets remained close at hand, eyes watched the horizon with suspicion, and neither side trusted the other not to strike the moment an excuse appeared. Only once the armed merchant ships had sailed far enough to vanish into the distance did the French frigate finally turn back to resume its patrol.

For Krüger's men, the worst part of the journey was only beginning.

The Caribbean sun was merciless. Heat clung to the decks and seeped into the holds, turning the interior of the ships into suffocating ovens. The air smelled of salt, tar, damp wood, sweat, and unwashed bodies. Even the most disciplined soldiers found their uniforms soaked before midday, their wool stiff with salt.

Scurvy soon became a concern. Some of the sailors—particularly those from older European crews—still whispered that citrus was unnecessary, that God or proximity to land would protect them. Krüger tolerated none of that. His men were Germans, and discipline was absolute. When he ordered citrus distributed, it was eaten without complaint. No prayers replaced rations, no superstition replaced orders.

Even so, exhaustion crept in. Lips cracked. Gums bled for those already weakened by weeks at sea. Men slept poorly, rocked awake by the groaning of the hulls and the endless creak of rigging.

Then one night, the weather changed.

It came without warning.

Thunder rolled across the sky like distant cannon fire. Rain fell in violent sheets, stinging exposed skin. The ships began to pitch and roll with alarming force, waves slamming against the hulls as if the sea itself had grown angry.

Krüger, already restless, felt the sudden violence of the motion and knew sleep was no longer possible. He stepped out of his cabin—and for the first time in his life, he felt true fear of the sea.

The sky had turned almost black. Thick clouds swallowed what little moonlight remained, turning the world into a shifting void of darkness and roaring water. Lightning tore across the heavens, briefly illuminating the fleet: fragile wooden vessels tossed like toys upon an endless abyss. For a moment, Krüger felt as if the ocean were a living beast, devouring light, sound, and certainty alike.

Gripping the rail to steady himself, he climbed with difficulty toward the quarterdeck. There he found the captain and several sailors, their faces grim as they argued in low, urgent voices.

When the captain noticed Krüger, he frowned."What are you doing here, sir? You should be below with your men."

Krüger gestured toward the sky, rain soaking his coat."Do you truly think I can remain below after feeling the ship move like this?" he replied mockingly. "Tell me what's happening."

The captain dismissed the sailors with a sharp command and took firm hold of the wheel."A storm," he said. "It formed suddenly. This is not uncommon in these waters."

Krüger raised an eyebrow."Do not lie to me. I saw the looks on your men's faces."

The captain muttered something under his breath—"idiots"—then sighed."We don't know yet. We are on the edge of the storm. If we want to survive, we must attempt to sail ahead of it. The problem is the darkness—and the other ships. I can only control this vessel. If the others take a wrong course, we may lose them."

Another thunderclap shook the deck.

"I will do everything I can," the captain continued grimly, "but the odds are not in our favor. You should prepare your men. Panic would only make things worse."

Krüger nodded, the seriousness finally settling in."Then may God guide you through this torment," he said quietly, "and may all of us reach the New World whole."

With care, he descended back into the ship, forcing calm into his voice as he addressed the soldiers below. Even then, fear spread. The ship groaned. Barrels rolled. Men vomited from the violent motion. The storm seemed endless.

For two full days, the fleet battled the sea.

At times, even the captain doubted whether they were escaping the storm—or sailing deeper into its heart.

When it finally ended, it felt less like victory and more like survival granted by chance.

Exhausted, battered, and with sails torn and rigging damaged, what remained of the convoy drifted toward a small island rising from the horizon.

Relief washed over the crew like fresh water.

Krüger emerged once more and approached the captain."I heard land was sighted."

The captain nodded."Yes. That island there. It appears abandoned, but our charts are unclear. The cartographer is trying to identify it."

Krüger exhaled slowly, then frowned."Spanish territory?"

The captain chuckled."Unlikely. Possible—but doubtful. The lack of patrols suggests it is either insignificant or ignored."

Krüger nodded."Have we sighted the other ships?"

The captain's expression darkened."No. But we have found wreckage. At least one vessel was lost."

Krüger clenched his jaw."This is bad. If we are the only survivors, we have barely two hundred men. With that force, conquering even a city would be difficult—liberating an entire continent would be impossible."

The captain shrugged."The sea answers to no one. I suggest focusing on supplies. If we remain isolated here, your numbers may fall even further."

Before Krüger could respond, the cartographer suddenly cried out."Sir—we were fortunate!"

The captain turned sharply."You've identified it?"

"Yes," the cartographer said, visibly relieved. "This is most likely Saint Andrew's Island."

Krüger frowned."Where is that?"

"Near New Granada," the captain explained. "On Spanish maps, it is called San Andrés."

He pointed toward the island."The settlers here are mostly English—families like the Livingstons, Taylors, and Bowies. Old friends of the British Crown."

Krüger blinked."Spanish territory… or British?"

The captain laughed."That's the amusing part. They answer to Spain, but they are Protestant, speak English, and follow British customs. It's an insult under Spain's nose—but fortunate for you. They will likely ignore your presence."

Krüger smiled faintly."A British enclave inside a Spanish colony. Fascinating."

"In the Americas," the captain replied, "survival often means sheltering beneath the largest tree. It's one reason Britain wants trouble in New Granada—they resent Spain's dominance."

Krüger nodded thoughtfully."This island could serve as a forward base. How far is it from the Gulf of Urabá? Could we move small forces from here?"

The captain hesitated."That depends on how much you're willing to spend persuading the governor."

He turned to the cartographer."Who governs San Andrés?"

"Thomas O'Neill, sir," the cartographer replied. "He did commendable work bringing the British settlers of San Andrés under the Spanish Crown. By integrating them rather than crushing them, he gathered considerable influence. His authority is well established now. There are only a few hundred inhabitants—mostly British settlers and slaves—but the real danger of this place lies in the coral reefs. Without a local guide, navigating them would be extremely risky."

The captain turned to his attendant. "Take a small boat. Find the settlement and request assistance. We'll need someone from San Andrés to guide us safely into port."

The attendant nodded and turned to leave, but Krüger stopped him."Wait. I'm coming with you. I want to see this place for myself—and judge whether it can truly serve as an advanced base for our forces."

The attendant hesitated and glanced at the captain. After receiving a nod of approval, he gestured for Krüger to follow. Together, they boarded a small boat and began rowing toward the island.

Krüger had led men across frozen marches and watched the sun rise over the Baltic Sea, but nothing in his experience had prepared him for this.

The water shimmered like liquid gemstones. It was less sea than glass, shifting in color as the boat moved—deep sapphire giving way to a translucent turquoise so clear that he could count the coral formations on the seabed below. It was breathtaking, almost unreal. Yet he knew those same beautiful reefs could rip open a ship's hull as easily as a blade through cloth.

As they approached the shallows, Krüger suddenly noticed a massive shape moving beneath the surface—a creature unlike anything he had ever seen. Its back was covered in thick, ridged armor, ancient and imposing.

"What is that monster?" Krüger asked, pointing.

The sailors followed his gaze and laughed."A tortoise, sir. They're everywhere around the island."

Another sailor grinned. "And they're worth a fortune in Britain. Only high society can afford turtle soup there. Out here, even filthy sailors like us can eat as well as the nobles of London."

Krüger frowned."You eat reptiles? That seems… unclean."

The sailor shrugged. "Sir, we live on the sea. We bathe in it, piss in it, and in hard times we eat whatever it gives us. We're already dirty to the bone." He chuckled. "You should try it in San Andrés. It's surprisingly flavorful."

Krüger nodded, though inwardly he felt a faint revulsion. In his homeland, eating reptiles was unthinkable, a deep taboo. He doubted he would ever truly enjoy such a meal. Still, watching the immense creature glide effortlessly through the clear water stirred something unexpected in him. For all his discomfort, the sight was magnificent—and strangely humbling.

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