“P-P-Please, spare me…”
“…”
“…”
Where exactly did it all go so horribly wrong?
It was an engagement they were absolutely, undeniably guaranteed to win.
They knew every single strength and weakness of the enemy, they had perfectly deceived their formations, and they even outnumbered them three to one.
Yet, they had lost.
Over the past two hours, roughly half of his men had been slaughtered right where they stood. The rest had either broken ranks and fled, or been run down and captured while attempting to flee.
Just like Gaspar was now.
It was an absolute, crushing defeat. They had lost so spectacularly he couldn’t even fathom how it was physically possible.
RUMBLE! RUMBLE! RUMBLE!
‘Those things’ were approaching.
You said they were just covered in thin sheets of steel!
Shouldn’t they be pierced if we shoot them enough times?!
Why are our bullets and swords completely failing to scratch those ‘tractors,’ merely bouncing off uselessly?!
Gathering the very last ounce of his strength, fully knowing it was an entirely futile gesture, Gaspar violently struck the transparent wall directly in front of him with his sword.
Clang. The blade simply deflected off.
Such was the terrifying resilience of Lexan glass.
“Hey! That’s the enemy commander!”
“Here! Take me… take m-me as a prisoner of war…”
Hearing the shouts directed at him, the utterly exhausted Gaspar weakly crawled forward on his hands and knees. Covered in blood and dirt, his pride entirely shattered, he collapsed to his knees before Knight Captain Skinner.
No matter how frantically he had tried to brainwash his men into believing those machines were nothing more than clunky piles of scrap metal, it had been completely useless. The sheer, horrifying reality that those ‘massive piles of scrap metal’ were mechanically moving toward them was enough to break their minds.
No matter how many volleys they fired, no matter how desperately they swung their swords, they couldn’t even leave a dent. In fact, it was practically impossible to even get close enough to try, thanks to those cursed, violently spinning blades attached to the front.
And just when a soldier miraculously managed to slip past the blades and close the distance to the driver, they were instantly gunned down by the enemy infantry safely taking cover behind the advancing machines.
Right. The gunfire. The enemy’s muskets were completely absurd as well.
How on earth was a measly force of a few hundred men matching the combined firepower of a fifteen-hundred-strong army blow for blow?
Everything was… bizarre and completely illogical.
“How… how exactly do your… those muskets…”
“Are you unaware of our brilliance? It is a revolutionary mechanism known as the [Flintlock]—”
“Shut the hell up!”
“…”
“…”
A-Ah, what have I just done?
Consumed by sheer, agonizing frustration, he had accidentally screamed at the very man he was supposed to be surrendering to.
“I… my apologies. I-I misspoke in my haste…”
“…”
“…”
“Please, t-take me as a prisoner of war. I am absolutely certain there is someone back in my homeland willing to pay a handsome ransom for my return…”
Smash!
Gaspar didn’t even register what had just hit him. It wasn’t until he heard the furious scream echoing above him that he realized it was the fist of Sir Skinner—the very man he had arrogantly mocked as ‘Don Quixote’ just a few hours prior.
“Begging for your life like a coward is utterly devoid of honor!”
Honor? Who gives a damn about honor?! I’m just trying to survive here…!
“A commander devoid of honor must be executed immediately!”
…Come to think of it, perhaps honor is actually quite important. Just slightly less important than my life, but still.
“Honooooor! Accept the honorable blade of a true Knight and dieeee!”
“Calm down. Whoa, whoa. Calm down. Deep breaths, Sir Skinner.”
“Grrrr! Argh! Honor! Honoooor!”
As Oitotan desperately struggled to physically restrain the foaming, wildly flailing Skinner from drawing his sword, Gaspar stared blankly at the absurd spectacle unfolding before him.
He just wanted to quit everything and go home.
Of course, that wasn’t an option.
And that made him profoundly sad.
***
The Florida colony of New Spain was fundamentally structured around a tiny minority of Spanish elites reigning with absolute authority over a massive majority of enslaved Africans.
Florida’s foundational policies differed drastically from those of other Spanish colonies.
In standard Spanish colonies, the indigenous populations and other ethnic groups were generally viewed as ‘prospective citizens’ who would eventually be converted to Catholicism and fully integrated into the Spanish Empire as loyal subjects.
There was a relatively open pathway for other races to assimilate into the imperial system. The fact that the enslavement of Native Americans had been strictly prohibited long before Elizabeth’s political maneuvering and propaganda campaigns was deeply rooted in this exact ideological framework.
However, Florida was an entirely different beast. It was a colony hastily forged through rapid, aggressive migration and brutal colonial policies.
The core foundation of Florida was the mass importation of African slaves to serve exclusively as a disposable labor force for the tiny minority of Spanish rulers, while simultaneously deliberately segregating and isolating the local Native American societies.
Because the system was inherently designed to violently suppress a subjugated majority—much like ancient Sparta, the Qing Dynasty, or Apartheid South Africa—the right to bear arms in Spanish Florida was strictly, exclusively reserved for the Spanish minority.
It was a uniquely oppressive system that only permitted the Spanish to wield military power and enter the armed forces.
Consequently, the 1,500 soldiers deployed to Florida were an incredibly precious, practically irreplaceable strategic resource.
From the perspective of Viceroy Juan de Mendoza y Luna—who was currently barely clinging to his position by desperately kissing up to the Duke of Lerma, the true power behind the Spanish throne—this entire situation was enough to make him tear his hair out.
He had firmly believed that a force of 1,500 heavily armed regulars would be more than enough to effortlessly reconquer the entirety of Florida. For them to produce such an abysmally pathetic result was completely incomprehensible.
Even if they called it a massive uprising, wasn’t this entire rebellion started by a bunch of disorganized slaves who didn’t even know the basics of organized warfare?
Sure, they might have managed to overwhelm the local garrisons once through sheer, desperate numbers, but to defeat a fully equipped regular army? In a pitched, open-field battle?!
Actually, there was something far more deeply shocking to the Viceroy than the mere fact that they had lost the battle.
It was the very fact that a ‘pitched battle’ had occurred in the first place.
There had been organized, strategic resistance.
The Spanish authorities had fully assumed that the moment they marched a proper army into the territory, the rebel mobs would frantically scatter in all directions like cockroaches fleeing from the light.
While they anticipated facing sporadic guerrilla resistance and minor armed skirmishes, they firmly believed that would be the absolute extent of the conflict. No one in their wildest dreams had anticipated facing a formal, organized military engagement.
Yet, their massive suppression force had marched straight into the teeth of a coordinated, heavily armed enemy military.
And they had been spectacularly, humiliatingly pulverized.
Therefore, the unrest in Florida was clearly not a chaotic, disorganized ‘riot.’
It was a highly organized ‘Rebellion’ orchestrated by a unified central command.
If that was the case, the chaos in Florida could no longer be resolved through simple pacification tactics.
This was a full-scale War.
And the quickest way to end a war is to force the enemy’s high command to surrender.
What they desperately needed right now was not a grueling, agonizingly slow campaign of sending suppression forces to methodically recapture every single settlement and restore order piece by piece.
What they needed immediately was a decisive decapitation strike.
The high-ranking bureaucrats of New Spain meticulously gathered intelligence. They relentlessly interrogated passing merchants and desperately squeezed every last drop of information from the slave owners who had fled the carnage.
“When exactly did you say the scattered settlements across Florida began to collapse simultaneously?”
“Immediately following the fall of San Agustín, Your Excellency.”
“And where was that problematic ‘Priest’ last seen?”
“In San Agustín, Your Excellency.”
“Which port currently handles the absolute highest volume of maritime traffic in modern Florida?”
“…San Agustín, Your Excellency.”
“That settles it.”
Having compiled and analyzed the gathered intelligence, Juan de Mendoza y Luna rapidly ran the strategic calculations through his head.
If the rebels intended to maintain their absolute grip over the entirety of Florida, their central command headquarters was inevitably, fundamentally tied to San Agustín.
Even if the supreme leader of the rebellion wasn’t physically present there, it didn’t matter. The entire road network of Florida radiated outward from that single city like a spiderweb; whoever controlled San Agustín could easily project power to conquer any other city in the colony.
If they seized San Agustín by the throat, the rebel forces scattered across the territory could be swiftly isolated and destroyed one by one.
“San… Agustín.”
Swallowing hard, Juan de Mendoza instinctively realized this would be the final, most consequential command he would ever issue as the Viceroy of this land.
If he successfully overcame this monumental crisis, he would secure a glorious promotion to the Viceroyalty of Peru. If he failed, his political career would be permanently shattered, and he would face eternal exile.
Taking it a step further…
“Send an urgent dispatch to the homeland requesting immediate military reinforcements.”
Whether they could successfully deflect the blade currently aimed directly at the jugular of the Spanish Empire hinged entirely upon this single battle.
A colossal military force was mobilized.
The massive colonial administrative machine, which had been steadily expanding its power since the reign of Philip II, roared to life at absolute maximum output.
***
The defensive strategy for Florida was… incredibly complicated.
This was largely due to the unique geopolitical predicament the new government of Florida found itself in.
In order to effectively control and dominate the sparsely populated, massive territory of Florida, the Spanish government had heavily invested in developing several key strongholds. They had then meticulously designed their road networks and administrative infrastructure radiating outward from the absolute ‘crown jewel’ of those strongholds.
That crown jewel was San Agustín.
San Agustín was the undisputed brain and beating heart of Spanish Florida.
Like most of the major outposts in Spanish Florida, it was a heavily fortified settlement constructed directly on the coast.
From this city, which permanently housed a relatively massive population of roughly 3,000 people, the Governor-General of Florida issued absolute decrees to the other strongholds, projecting his imperial influence outward to dominate the various Native American tribes and scattered villages.
To facilitate this iron-fisted control, a dense, highly sophisticated road network had been woven together with San Agustín at its absolute center, creating a hyper-efficient system that allowed the Governor-General to rapidly intervene whenever a localized issue arose.
Of course, the cruel irony was that this exact same hyper-efficient infrastructure had allowed the slave rebellions erupting across the colony to rapidly converge upon San Agustín, resulting in the instantaneous, catastrophic collapse of the entire Florida colony.
Yet, the strategic importance of San Agustín remained absolutely unchanged even after the rulers of the land had been violently overthrown.
Whoever controlled this coastal fortress controlled the entirety of Florida.
Therefore, when the Spanish inevitably launched their massive invasion to reconquer Florida, this city would serve as the absolute frontline of the war.
Striking directly at the enemy’s heart is the most fundamental, basic tenet of military strategy. Furthermore, San Agustín was a coastal fortress. For the Spanish, who possessed overwhelming naval supremacy, launching a massive amphibious assault against the city was the most logically sound approach.
However, in this specific environment, the absolute pride and joy of the Virginian Agricultural Knights—the heavily armored war tractors—were rendered practically useless.
If one were to list the defining characteristics of the war tractors manufactured in Virginia, it would look something like this:
An average weight exceeding thirty tons.
A painfully sluggish top speed and underwhelming torque, even when pushing the steam engine to its absolute maximum output.
A drivetrain consisting entirely of massive, smooth wheels, completely lacking any specialized mechanisms for navigating rough, uneven terrain.
Consequently, if they even dared to approach a muddy swamp or a sandy beach, they were practically guaranteed to become hopelessly bogged down and immobilized.
If they were forced to traverse even slightly rugged terrain, the war tractors would inevitably stall right where they stood. Ultimately, the tractors were severely handicapped unless they were deployed on hard, perfectly flat ground with easy access to the massive quantities of water and firewood required to keep their boilers running.
However, as previously mentioned, the area surrounding San Agustín possessed the exact geographic conditions of a coastal estuary where several rivers met the ocean. Despite over a decade of aggressive development, the region was still heavily dotted with treacherous swamps and wetlands.
It was the absolute worst possible environment for the tractors to operate in. To begin with, it was already incredibly difficult to effectively utilize the slow, clunky tractors in a defensive siege battle.
Furthermore, the tractors had already been strategically deployed to locations far better suited for their specific strengths.
They were currently locking down the various potential inland invasion routes the Spanish army might take.
In other words.
San Agustín was a battlefield where the tractors would severely struggle to perform. Furthermore, because it sat directly on the coast, it possessed an incredibly dangerous geographic vulnerability, completely exposed to a massive amphibious assault from the sea.
Therefore, this city was the absolute most vulnerable target to enemy attacks.
Yet, the new government of Florida was currently headquartered entirely within San Agustín. It was the undisputed political and logistical center of Florida.
Furthermore, San Agustín possessed the perfect foundational infrastructure required to instantly project power and influence across the entirety of Florida.
If this city fell, the entirety of Florida would instantly be crushed beneath the Spanish boot heel once more.
Therefore, abandoning the city was simply not an option.
No one could possibly predict exactly what kind of horrific, bloody battle would unfold in San Agustín… but one thing was absolutely certain.
The outcome of the impending battle in this city would permanently dictate the ultimate fate of Florida.
Having quietly observed the distant San Marcos fortress from a safe vantage point, I silently returned to my camp and stoked the small fire crackling near my tent. As I sat by the flames, quietly roasting the rabbit I had just hunted, I heard the crunch of approaching footsteps.
Thud.
Someone casually sat down directly beside me.
I could feel the intense weight of countless unseen gazes surrounding us. Dozens of eyes were glittering from the darkness, silently watching this exact spot.
“…Why won’t they come any closer?” I asked quietly.
The ‘Bishop’ of the underground network, sitting beside me, answered smoothly.
“They firmly believe that daring to approach the Angel directly is an act of profound irreverence. When I told them to follow me, they vehemently insisted on merely observing you from a respectful distance.”
“…”
“A total of 1,200 men have gathered here. That is the sheer number of liberated freemen who have flocked from every corner of Florida specifically to defend San Agustín.”
“…That is wonderful news.”
“This was only possible because you are here, my lord. The fact that we managed to scrape together a force of 1,500 soldiers to defend that fortress is nothing short of a miracle.”
Gesturing toward the horizon, the Bishop pointed at the fortress faintly visible in the distance. Even in the dead of night, the fortress was blazing brightly with countless torches, its defenders frantically maintaining high alert, making it easily visible from several kilometers away.
Inside those walls, men who had never received a single day of proper military training in their lives, men who hadn’t even known how to properly hold a musket until very recently, were likely awkwardly holding their assigned positions and desperately trying to memorize the flag signals.
I tore off a piece of the roasted meat and popped it into my mouth. It was tough and distinctly gamey, but it was edible.
“…Were you in the middle of a meal, my lord?”
“It’s fine. Please, stay seated, Bishop.”
“I constantly worry that I, a man entirely ignorant of proper theology, have caused undue confusion by arrogantly impersonating the holy office of a priest…”
“Not at all. The Church has already officially resolved to ordain you as a legitimate Bishop. Whether you are well-versed in complex theology or not, surely the Church can do at least that much for a man who has risked his life fighting for the liberation of slaves for over a decade?”
“…”
“Furthermore, successfully rallying a force of over a thousand soldiers is entirely an achievement born from your own relentless efforts. I merely came here to quietly observe you all.”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“When I first issued the command to liberate the slaves, it was you who actually risked your lives to shatter the chains binding them in servitude. Everything that has been achieved here is the direct result of your own blood, sweat, and tears. There is absolutely no reason for my name to be unnecessarily elevated here.”
I meant every single word.
I had never in my wildest dreams imagined that Florida would be completely turned upside down like this in a mere matter of years.
Ultimately, the ones who had miraculously forged this impossible reality were the people who had firmly planted their feet in this bloody soil, not some random grape farmer secretly funneling them resources from a safe distance.
“Therefore, you must all place your absolute faith in yourselves.”
“We place our absolute faith in you, my lord.”
“Do not place your faith in me. The outcome of this war rests entirely in your hands.
Place your faith in what you yourselves will accomplish upon your own land.”
Right now, the absolute most I could possibly do for them was offer some encouraging words for the impending war, and sincerely praise them for everything they had sacrificed to achieve thus far.
Even if these people fanatically worshipped me as an Angel, I was ultimately just an ordinary, powerless human being.
How many Spanish soldiers would actually show up? I had absolutely no idea.
I didn’t possess any magical powers to effortlessly vaporize the enemy army, nor did I possess the divine knowledge or omnipotent authority to accurately predict the ultimate outcome of this war.
“I will place my faith in all of you.”
At my words, the countless pairs of eyes glittering from the darkness wavered, blinked rapidly, and slowly began to vanish one by one. Seeing the ‘Bishop’ also bow his head respectfully and prepare to take his leave, I quietly added one final sentence.
“…However, I will assist you to the absolute limits of my physical capabilities.”
Tap. Tap.
I gently patted the massive object looming directly behind me. Tossing the final piece of roasted rabbit into my mouth, I looked around…
There was absolutely no one left nearby.
It seemed that moving with absolute, silent stealth had become permanently ingrained in their habits. It was certainly fitting for the leaders of a massive secret intelligence network.
Dusting off my hands, I stood up and turned to look at the tent pitched directly behind me.
And more specifically, at the colossal object towering higher than a grown man, currently draped heavily in thick tent canvas.
As I mentioned earlier.
The heavily armored war tractors were incredibly difficult to utilize effectively in the treacherous terrain surrounding San Agustín.
…What were the glaring flaws of our war tractors again?
An absurdly, impractically massive weight easily exceeding 30 tons.
A pathetic steam engine output that barely managed to scrape together a handful of horsepower.
A simplistic drivetrain composed entirely of massive wheels, guaranteeing they would instantly become useless metal bricks the moment they sank into deep mud.
Because of those fatal flaws, the war tractors were practically unusable in this specific region, which was predominantly composed of treacherous wetlands.
However.
What if the weight was drastically reduced to a relatively light 10 tons?
And what if it was propelled by a monstrously powerful engine capable of effortlessly surpassing 100 horsepower?
And what if it possessed a specialized drivetrain composed of continuous caterpillar tracks, allowing it to effortlessly glide over the vast majority of rough, uneven terrain?
If a ‘weapon of war’ possessed those exact specifications, it could be flawlessly operated even in this treacherous land filled with sandy beaches and deep swamps.
That’s right.
Swish!
My excavator could perfectly dominate this battlefield as well.
As I forcefully yanked the heavy canvas tarp away, the excavator—now terrifyingly armored with thick steel plating and Lexan glass—gleamed menacingly in the firelight.