The Shining Sea

by George C. Daughan

  So instead of setting his anchor, Porter surprised the crew and made all sail. They ran with a strong breeze to the north for four hours, whereupon the wind died. By that time the Essex was thirty miles from Valparaiso, and the men were perplexed. Since leaving St. Catherine’s, they had been at sea for eight difficult weeks; they desperately needed shore leave. And, of course, the Essex needed repairs and replenishment. Porter understood the situation and calmed everyone down by mustering the ship’s company and telling them, in his usual animated style, the advantages of waiting a bit before putting into Valparaiso. Young Farragut, who knew how much the lower deck longed for leave, could not believe the response—the men cheered. It was a measure of Porter’s charisma.

  For some reason, perhaps the obviously deteriorating mental and physical state of the crew, Porter soon changed his mind, and the following day he put back into Valparaiso. Still leery of the reception Spanish authorities were going to give an American warship, he dispatched Lieutenant Downes to confer with the governor of the port and test the waters. Downes was to inform the governor that the Essex was an American frigate urgently in need of supplies, because her supply ship had been lost going around the Horn. Porter feared the Chileans would prevent him from obtaining supplies unless he claimed that this was an emergency. And even then, he thought they would be reluctant to sell him water and provisions, unless he softened them with gold from the Nocton.

  As things turned out, he did not have to worry. Even before he let go his anchor, the governor’s barge pulled alongside with Lieutenant Downes, accompanied by the captain of the port and another officer. They were bubbling over with enthusiasm, offering the Americans whatever assistance and accommodations Valparaiso had to offer. Porter was bowled over by the reception. The port captain could not wait to tell him that Chileans were now independent of Spain and that their ports were open to all nations. What’s more, he reported, Chileans looked to the United States for inspiration and protection. They needed help, but so did every American vessel in the area. Peruvian warships (sent by the Viceroy of Peru, who was still loyal to Spain) were off shore capturing American vessels bound for Valparaiso. Only a few days before, five American whalers had disappeared close to the port. They were undoubtedly captured, the captain said, and taken to Lima.

  Porter was surprised that Chile had a new, pro-American, revolutionary government, and he intended to take full advantage. He had not bothered to inform himself about the breathtaking changes on the Iberian Peninsula during the last five years that had profoundly altered South American politics. In November 1807 Napoleon had invaded Portugal, throwing the Portuguese empire into turmoil. French General Jean-Andoche Junot led an army of 20,000 across Spain (with the permission of the government), crossed the border, and marched on Lisbon against scant resistance. The royal family narrowly escaped, fleeing the capital on November 27, twenty-four hours before the French army arrived. With British warships, under the command of Rear Admiral William Sidney Smith, and the entire Portuguese navy escorting him, the Prince Regent, Joao VI, his nine-year-old son, Pedro de Braganza, and a huge entourage sailed in forty ships for Brazil, where the Portuguese court was reestablished at Rio de Janeiro under British protection. Portugal was Britain’s oldest Continental ally, dating back to the Treaty of Methuen in 1703.

  In March 1808, Napoleon invaded Spain. Marshall Murat led a French army of 120,000 and occupied Madrid, under the pretext of saving the feuding royal family—King Charles IV, Queen Maria Luisa, and their son, the prospective king Ferdinand VII—from itself. Manuel de Godoy, the queen’s lover, had been the de facto ruler of Spain since the middle of the 1790s and advised the frightened royals to flee to South America, as the Portuguese royal family had. They were in the process of leaving—traveling to the port of Cádiz—when hostile crowds at Aranjuez (thirty miles south of Madrid) stopped them and forced them back to the capital. Napoleon was then able to convince Charles, Maria Luisa, Ferdinand, and Godoy—to journey to Bayonne in France to sort things out. Once there, in May 1808, Bonaparte made them all prisoners, holding them in luxurious captivity for several years.

  With the royal family captive and a French army in Madrid, the way appeared open for Napoleon to consummate his grand scheme for Spain and her colonies. In June 1808 he installed his brother Joseph on the Spanish throne. In his megalomania, Napoleon assumed the Spanish people, and all the diverse populations of Spain’s American empire, would accept this new arrangement. His audacity was mind-boggling. If successful, he would become ruler of, not only the mother country, but her vast domains in America, which included nearly all of South America, almost all of Central America, much of the Caribbean, and important parts of North America, including the present states of Florida, Texas, Arizona, New Mexico, and California.

  As part of his grandiose plan, Napoleon had dispatched agents to Spain’s American colonies with orders to inspire and frighten them into accepting his brother as king. The agents met with universal resistance, however. Having a French heretic on the Spanish throne infuriated the church, the aristocracy, and just about every other group in Spain and her colonies. Setting aside their endless squabbling, angry Spaniards rose in rebellion. So did all of Latin America. Unfortunately, the opposition was everywhere rallied in the name of the dimwitted reactionary Ferdinand VII.

  Napoleon’s belief that he could acquire Spain’s vast empire on the cheap was a pipedream, given the existence of the British navy. It had been supreme on the oceans since Admiral Horatio Nelson’s dramatic victory over the combined Franco-Spanish fleet at Trafalgar in 1805. (At the time, Spain was still allied with France.)

  When Chileans received reports of the Napoleonic conquest in 1808, they were slow to react. The ultra-conservative Governor Luis Guzmán died soon after the news arrived, and he was replaced by General Francisco Antonio Carrasco, an elderly monarchist with no political experience and no common sense. He attempted to carry on as if the Bourbons were still in power, forcibly crushing any resistance to Spanish rule. Opposition soon became widespread, however. To many of Chile’s elites, unquestioned loyalty to the hapless Bourbons seemed absurd. Their gross incompetence over a twenty-year period prior to Napoleon’s invasion had already undermined Spain’s authority in Chile, and, indeed, all of Latin America. The ineffectual Charles IV, who had been nominal ruler since 1788, had found himself two decades later in a suicidal struggle for power with his hapless son, the future Ferdinand VII, and Queen Maria Luisa’s lover, Godoy. At one point both Charles and his son—oblivious to Napoleon’s designs on their country—had mindlessly appealed to the French dictator for help against the other. Opposition to Spanish authority in Chile was difficult to organize, however, since no meetings were allowed in 1808, and there were no newspapers—or even printing presses—in the entire country. The first newspaper in Chile’s history, La aurora de Chile (The Dawn of Chile) did not appear until February 13, 1812.

  In the months that followed the cataclysmic events of 1808 in Spain, Chilean political opinion generally divided into two camps—monarchists and republicans. The monarchists were united, and their program had the virtue of simplicity. It called for continued submission to the Bourbons and absolutism. These reactionaries were labeled peninsulares because most of them were white Spaniards who had left the mother country to administer her empire, both temporal and spiritual. Their ties to the imprisoned Bourbons, in addition to those of sentiment, were of self-interested officials whose positions and profits depended on continued Spanish rule.

  Republicans, on the other hand, were split into violent, irreconcilable, almost feudal factions. While quarreling with each other over who should lead, they advocated independence and a government responsible to the people. Inspired by the revolutions in the United States and France, they supported a complete break with Spain. For the most part, republicans were creoles—well-to-do people of Spanish blood born in America. For decades they had been restive under Bourbon rule. Alexander von Humbolt, the Prussian explorer, geogr
apher, and biological scientist, who knew South America firsthand, wrote that, “since the year 1789, they are frequently heard to declare with pride, ‘I am a not a Spaniard, I am an American,’ words which reveal the symptoms of a long resentment.”

  Regrettably, Spain’s dependencies had no tradition of self-government. For centuries all Spanish colonies were ruled directly from Madrid. The king appointed a cadre of officials, both secular and ecclesiastical, who ran each colony in minute detail. Every major decision and most minor ones were made in Spain. Without experience in republican government, creoles found working together exceptionally difficult.

  Furthermore, neither monarchists nor republicans spoke for the bulk of the population. Spanish America was deeply divided along racial, ethnic, and class lines. No group spoke for the large Indian populations, or for the mestizos (those of mixed Spanish and other racial categories, Indian and/or African), for African slaves, or for other powerless elements in society. The fight over what, if any, regime would replace the Bourbons was strictly among elites.

  Chile’s struggling republicans were given heart on May 25, 1810. On that day, nationalists deposed the head of the Viceroyalty of the Rio de la Plata in Buenos Aires, the largest Spanish colony in South America, and declared independence. Unrest in Chile grew so strong that General Francisco Carrasco was forced to resign in favor of the equally incompetent eighty-five-year-old General Mateo del Zambrano. It wasn’t long before his regime failed as well, and in September 1810, Chilean republicans finally formed a national government of their own. The creoles who orchestrated this change had high hopes for creating a republic similar to the one in the United States. In March 1811 they convened a national congress, but on September 4, 1811, a military junta led by twenty-six-year-old José Miguel Carrera seized power. Proud, impatient, and ambitious, Carrera was from one of the wealthiest and most powerful creole families, but until then, a political unknown. He had fought in Spain against the French and had been imbued with republican ideals, which he sought to install in Chile. But he was in a hurry, and would not wait for his dreams to be realized in a more democratic fashion.

  When David Porter steered the Essex into Valparaiso Harbor on March 15, 1813, José Miguel Carrera was still in power in the Chilean capital of Santiago, but he was not in full control of the country. Other republican families continued to contest his leadership, and the monarchists, who had a powerful ally in Peru, were still strong. They received encouragement from the Spanish viceroy in Lima, José Fernando de Abascal, a fierce advocate of continued Spanish rule in all of South America. His hand was strengthened by support from Great Britain—Spain’s staunch ally.

  While these events were transpiring in Chile, the Peninsular War in Spain continued into its fifth bloody year. The Spanish and Portuguese resistance against Bonaparte had naturally looked to Britain for aid, and London had been happy to provide it. In August 1808, the Peninsular War had begun when General Sir Arthur Wellesley (who would become in 1814 the first Duke of Wellington) landed nine thousand men at Mondego Bay, north of Lisbon. The talented Wellesley led the British forces most of the time against a French army that eventually numbered over two hundred and fifty thousand. In spite of this massive force Napoleon’s army could not prevail. The Spanish guerrilla resistance, working with the British expeditionary force, continued to frustrate them, and the war dragged on into 1813.

  It was not clear what government would eventually come to power in Madrid, if and when Napoleon’s army was defeated. But many hoped it would be a constitutional monarchy along British lines, only more democratic. At the beginning of the resistance in 1808, Spanish rebels had formed various regional councils or juntas to provide local leadership. These juntas in turn met in a national council in Seville, which, because of the fighting, moved in January 1810 to the port of Cádiz—a place where British naval power could be used for protection. This national junta, known as the regency council, convened a national congress, or Cortes, in September 1810, and invited representatives of the American colonies to attend. By 1812—with the Peninsula War still raging—the Cortes agreed on a new constitution, which offered partial representation to the Latin American colonies and envisaged a grand empire under a constitutional monarch. The suffrage, theoretically, was broader than anything in Britain, or even in America.

  Monarchists in South America wanted no part of this liberal regime, of course. Their power was concentrated in Peru, where the aging Spanish Viceroy Abascal had maintained absolutist control throughout the Peninsular War. Imbued with an uncompromising loyalty to the Bourbons and to Ferdinand VII, Abascal was determined to prevent Spain’s South American colonies from becoming independent. He rejected out of hand the reforms of the liberal Spanish resistance in Cádiz.

  The monarchists’ cause strengthened as Napoleon’s power diminished in 1813. The colossal blunder of invading Russia in June 1812 and the stunning defeat of his armies had undermined his capacity. And as his power declined, the prospect of Britain and her reactionary allies putting Ferdinand VII on the Spanish throne markedly increased. By March 1813, when Porter sailed into Valparaiso, the major European powers were mobilizing to prevent Bonaparte from reestablishing his power over Europe, while in Chile, José Miguel Carrera continued to be locked in a struggle against the strengthening monarchists and his republican rivals, among whom was Bernardo O’Higgins.

  The immediate threat to Carrera’s dictatorship came from Peru and Abascal, who felt a deep obligation to prevent Chile from becoming either independent or liberal. For all of its history Chile had been something of a Peruvian satellite, but, at the same time, Chileans had always maintained a separate identity, and now there was a growing nationalism that made the country’s elites think of themselves as ruling an independent nation, distinct from their powerful neighbor and her Spanish master.

  When Porter arrived on the scene, things were becoming even more complicated. Abascal was conducting a surprise amphibious invasion of Chile, which, because of the country’s primitive communications, the junta in Santiago was completely unaware of. General Antonio Pareja had landed a tiny detachment of royalist troops on the island of Chiloe south of Concepción, planning to move onto the mainland and capture Concepción before attacking Santiago. As Pareja expected, the royalists in the provinces of Chiloé and Valdivia went over to him, swelling his ranks, and Concepción itself soon followed, as did the city of Chillán. By the end of March 1813, Pareja had a force of over five thousand royalists threatening to reestablish Spanish authority over all of Chile north of the Bío Bío River.

  Porter had no way of knowing that the Chilean political situation was so fluid, that a clash was about to take place between the Carreras (supported now by their former enemy Bernardo O’Higgins) and Pareja. But even if he had, he had no desire to get mixed up in a complicated colonial war. He simply wanted to replenish the Essex, give his men time ashore, and move on.

  CHAPTER

  10

  A PACKED WEEK AT VALPARAISO

  PORTER SET HIS HOOK IN VALPARAISO, ON MARCH 15. BY prearrangement, the Essex saluted the town with twenty-one guns, and the town responded in kind. Porter then landed and met American deputy vice-consul Blanco, who rushed news of the Essex’s unforeseen arrival to his superior, Joel Poinsett, the consul general in Santiago—seventy-four difficult miles inland. Afterward, Porter made an official call on the governor of Valparaiso, don Francisco Lastra, who gave him a warm reception.

  Lastra made a good first impression on Porter. But later, after the American became better acquainted with Chilean politics, he judged Lastra to be an opportunist who supported the Carrera government but would change his allegiance in an instant if it were overthrown. Other government officials Porter met were honest republicans and patriots, he thought, but not Lastra. Neither Lastra nor Porter knew that Peruvian General Pareja had already landed south of Concepción, beginning a counterrevolution that stood a very good chance of restoring monarchist rule to Chile.

  Although
Porter had arranged with Lastra to resupply the Essex, a customs officer made it impossible to actually embark the goods. When word came from Santiago that Porter was to be given everything he wanted, the official, who Porter assumed was a monarchist, backed off. Governor Lastra brought the news to Porter personally, and provisioning went forward expeditiously. The food was exceptionally good and abundant. Apples, pears, peaches, nectarines, melons, onions, potatoes, and vegetables of every description were available. And the prices were much cheaper than at home. Soon, repairs were moving along just as fast. It looked as if the Essex would be ready for sea in six days. That would allow Porter to leave—no matter how tempted to stay—in one week. But what a week it was. He packed more into it than any other in his life.

  The influential consul general in Santiago, Joel Poinsett, was a big help in making sure that Porter received what he wanted. Poinsett was the senior American official in the southern region of South America. When he received news that an American frigate had arrived in Valparaiso, he was ecstatic. He had heard nothing from his government since the War of 1812 began; in fact, he had heard nothing from Washington for two years. During that time he had reported faithfully to the secretary of state on events and personalities in his area, but had received no dispatches in return.

  Occupied with the war against Britain, Washington paid scant attention to South America. President Madison was far more interested in East and West Florida, and to a lesser extent Cuba, Hispaniola, and Texas (all Spanish territory). The president was worried that the British might seize Florida and use it as a base to attack Louisiana and the southeastern part of the United States. To prevent this, and to carry out a long-standing goal of the South, he occupied a portion of West Florida in 1810, and in 1813 he absorbed the rest of the territory, moving troops up to the Perdido River, a narrow, dark stream—almost a creek—fifteen miles west of Pensacola. The Perdido formed the boundary between East and West Florida. Madison did not advance into sparsely populated East Florida, but there was no doubt that his ultimate goal was to annex all of Florida.