They recovered items from Don Sebastião's plantation and visited other farms in the Puebla region, salvaging what they could from properties confiscated during the sweeping reforms. It was an arduous process, one that brought little glory but reflected the dire state of our newly independent empire.
"The grain is so rotten," one soldier muttered as they unloaded yet another crate of spoiled wheat.
It took us five grueling days to return to Mexico City. With an acute shortage of horses, soldiers resorted to pulling carts by hand. Their faces, weary and drenched in sweat, told the story of exhaustion and desperation.
"The carts kept breaking down," another soldier groaned. "It was just insult after insult."
Improvisation became our only recourse. When axles splintered or wheels fell apart, we hacked down trees along the road, shaping crude repairs with whatever tools we had. At times, it felt as though the very earth conspired against us.
Yet, despite the challenges, no looters dared approach. The reputation of Agustin's forces had spread far and wide—an army hardened by war and fiercely protective of its spoils.
"At least we managed to do our part," I said, trying to lift the spirits of those around me. The men nodded faintly, though their fatigue outweighed any sense of accomplishment.
When we finally reached the outskirts of Mexico City, a staggering sight awaited us: hundreds of carts, laden with confiscated goods, stretched as far as the eye could see. These were the spoils of land seized from peninsulares, the Spanish-born elites who had once ruled Mexico with an iron grip. Their estates, farms, and businesses had been expropriated by the nascent government in a desperate bid to fund its survival.
"We're constructing another warehouse for all this," one officer remarked.
"Yes," another replied grimly. "Without a functioning currency system, we can't sell most of this yet. The storage requirements will be massive."
Before independence, Mexico had relied on Spanish coinage—silver reales and pesos minted in the famed Casa de Moneda. But after the protracted War of Independence (1810–1821), the economy lay in ruins. Inflation soared, currency circulation ground to a halt, and trade networks collapsed. Now, the government was left to sift through the wreckage, salvaging whatever it could.
As Major General Fernando prepared his report on the operation, he detailed how soldiers had stripped uniforms and boots from captured enemy officers. Not a single item escaped scrutiny.
After unloading the goods into a temporary storage facility, I reported directly to my father, Agustin I of Mexico—the self-declared Emperor of our fragile empire.
"There was a clash at Sebastião's warehouse, Your Majesty," Fernando stated grimly.
"Someone dared to steal before us?" my father responded, his frown deepening into a scowl.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Fernando replied.
"Then the question becomes: who leaked the information? Investigate this thoroughly, Fernando."
"Of course, Your Majesty."
Agustin I then turned his piercing gaze on me.
"I instructed you to stay out of combat, yet you fired a cannon and killed the enemy commander?"
"…I didn't fire the cannon, Father. Lieutenant Manuel carefully aimed and fired, and I merely observed," I admitted.
"But according to Fernando, it was your idea to target their commander because the range was favorable, wasn't it?"
"Yes, Father, that's correct," I reluctantly confirmed.
"Then that was quick thinking. Without your intervention, the battle might have dragged on, costing many lives. Fernando, is that your assessment as well?"
"Indeed, Your Majesty. His Highness's decision saved us from severe losses while minimizing harm to our men."
Agustin nodded solemnly. "Then the Crown Prince, along with Lieutenant Manuel, must be commended. Prepare the necessary rewards, Fernando."
"Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you."
When Fernando left, I turned to Agustin. "Father, how will you use the funds secured from the confiscations?"
"We'll begin by paying overdue salaries to civil servants and soldiers," he explained. "There are too many goods for storage, so we'll sell some as soon as the accounts are settled."
"Once the salaries are paid, how will the remaining funds be allocated?" I pressed.
Agustin's expression softened as he ruffled my hair—a rare moment of fatherly affection.
"What do you suggest?" he asked, surprisingly receptive.
"I believe it's urgent to resume silver mining. The market desperately needs currency, and reviving the mines could stabilize the economy. With the funds, we could even acquire new mines."
Agustin nodded slowly, considering my words. "That's sound advice. We'll prioritize this once the immediate payments are handled."
The following week, Agustin I held a ceremony in the Zócalo to honor those involved in the operation. Major General Fernando was awarded the Order of the Eagle and promoted to Distinguished Officer of the First Class. Even I received a medal, though I lacked a formal military rank.
Agustin's strategy was clear. By granting promotions primarily to royalist officers, he ensured their loyalty while sidelining republican factions within the army. These republicans, who had fought for a democratic Mexico, now found themselves excluded from power under Agustin's imperial regime.
The confiscation campaign, however, was far from perfect. Many farms, especially those farther from Mexico City, were emptied before the army arrived. The alarming speed of these thefts revealed insider knowledge—evidence pointed to republican-aligned lawmakers who tipped off landowners.
"After the speech, they immediately sent riders to inform their allies, enabling them to escape with goods," Fernando reported.
Agustin responded with swift retribution. Lawmakers implicated in the leaks were stripped of their seats, fined, and in some cases, imprisoned. Of 201 members in Congress, 29 were exposed.
This scandal galvanized efforts to issue a new currency. The confiscated silver was melted down and minted into coins bearing Agustin's likeness—a symbolic gesture evoking the colonial-era Spanish silver coins that had once made Mexico the envy of the world. With these, the government hoped to inject stability into the fractured economy.
By mid-1822, the empire's finances showed modest improvement. Salaries were paid, and trade in Mexico City began to regain momentum. The minting of silver coins—though limited—gave merchants a glimmer of hope. Yet the challenges ahead loomed large.
The northern territories remained sparsely populated and vulnerable to foreign encroachment. American settlers, emboldened by the Monroe Doctrine, were rapidly moving westward, eyeing lands in Texas and beyond. The threat of losing Alta California, with its untapped resources and strategic importance, weighed heavily on Agustin's mind.
With funds secure, I approached my father again to discuss an earlier request: exploration and settlement in the northwest.
"Father, I'd like permission to open up Alta California."
Agustin frowned. "It's too far, my son—months of travel through harsh terrain. Why waste your time on such a venture?"
"Father," I argued, "Americans are already settling Texas and pushing westward. If we leave California undefended, they'll claim it as their own. Establishing a presence now is essential to maintaining our sovereignty."
He sighed but ultimately relented. "Fine. But don't stray from the guards I'll assign you."