Bolivar: American Liberator

by Arana, Marie

  When the meeting resumed, the Creoles proceeded to outline their proposal for self-rule under the Spanish king. But before they were done, noise erupted in the hall, the doors of the chambers flung open, and the deacon of the cathedral, the imposing José Cortés de Madariaga, descendant of the great explorer Cortés, swept grandly into the room. The churchman took a seat and listened to the Creoles as they politely invited Emparán to lead their junta, at which point Cortés could contain himself no longer. Didn’t city hall know anything about the people they represented? he thundered. Didn’t they know that Venezuelans hated Emparán? Why were they prostrating themselves in front of this man? How could they invite a Spanish governor to lead their insurrection? If Creoles truly wanted independence, they would run him off, end Spain’s dominance for good, and put all the king’s men on the first ship out of La Guaira. The council broke out in an uproar—half riotous dissent, half boisterous approval. But the priest had made a point.

  Emparán protested. The people, he insisted, were on his side. To prove it, he went out to his balcony and asked the mass gathered below what they thought of him. Did they approve his command? Did they appreciate the Regency’s rule? Cortés, who stood just behind, gesticulated extravagantly, urging them to say no. The people took his cue. “No!” they cried. And then louder: “No! No! We don’t want it!”

  The captain-general was taken aback. “Then I do not want it, either,” he shouted, and went back inside. It was a clear and public renunciation and it was duly recorded into the meeting’s minutes. The rule of Spain was over. Within two days, Emparán and his deputies were on a ship bound for Philadelphia and a new government was in place. They called it the Supreme Junta of Caracas, Dedicated to Preserving the Rights of King Ferdinand VII. Among its most pressing declarations: The colony could engage in free trade. Indians would no longer pay punishing tributes. The slave market was a relic of the past.

  That year, like bricks tumbling in a row, the colonies of Buenos Aires, Bogotá, Quito, and Mexico declared their sovereignty, established juntas, and dispatched Spain’s governors to an open sea. By the end of the year, every major metropolis on the continent, except for Lima, had rid itself of its Spanish garrison. It was a strange and surreal uncoupling: King Ferdinand’s American empire had declared autonomy—in his name. And yet, for all the talk about liberty, little was said about the other two pillars of democracy: fraternity and equality. The rallying cries that had guided revolutions in France and North America would be slow to catch fire in Spanish America. Class was too delicate a question; race, a virtual tinderbox; the region’s ethnicities and allegiances too jumbled to parse. There was another problem. The independence movement’s aristocratic origin was a liability in the eyes of the colored masses that made up the vast majority of the population. In certain areas—Coró and Maracaibo in Venezuela, Pasto in New Granada, and in all of Peru—Americans would feel more loyalty to Spain than to the land on which they stood. It would be many years before any unity of purpose was reached, and a civil war would be fought in order to reach it. The struggle for liberation had just begun.

  THE FIRST ORDER OF BUSINESS for the tenuous Junta of Caracas was to create alliances as quickly as possible. Too many ill winds—war, blockade, embargo—threatened the fledgling government. A firm footing had to be established so that independent rule could take root and grow. The junta dispatched three representatives to Coró, a district of Venezuela that had always considered itself Caracas’s equal, but the envoys were greeted with open contempt. In Maracaibo, they were imprisoned and deported. It became all too apparent that it would take time—perhaps even military muscle—to win over a nervous populace, and success might very well depend on recognition from world powers. By May, the junta was organizing diplomatic missions to London, Washington, and the Caribbean.

  Bolívar had been surprised by the success of the April 19 coup. A resolute radical, he had no faith in restraint as a strategy against repression, and yet he had to concede that the moderates had won the day—not through belligerence but parley. He rode from his hacienda in the valley of Tuy to offer them his services. The cautious members of the city council—now rulers of the junta—were wary of Bolívar’s uncompromising positions, but when he offered to pay all costs for the diplomatic mission to London, they had no choice but to accept. Their treasury was depleted—they had sent Emparán and his minions off to Philadelphia with a sizable portion of the city’s funds. Reluctantly agreeing to Bolívar’s conditions, they made him head of the London delegation and granted him a rank of colonel to lend his name more prestige. To balance Bolívar’s relative inexperience, they insisted he be accompanied by a deputy in whom they had infinitely more confidence, the former mayor of Caracas Luis López Méndez; and, in the role of secretary, Andrés Bello. In the same spirit, the junta sent Bolívar’s brother, Juan Vicente, to the United States, the flamboyant deacon Cortés to New Granada, and two delegations to the English islands of the Caribbean—Curaçao, Trinidad, and Jamaica.

  Bolívar, López Méndez, and Bello set sail in early June on an English brig of war, the General Wellington, which had been sent expressly by Lord Admiral Cochrane for the voyage. The Wellington dropped anchor in Portsmouth on the 10th of July, accompanied by the Spanish battleship Castilla, whose captain was unaware that the vessel he was protecting carried the representatives of a rebel government. The three Caracans were promptly escorted through customs and issued passports; they arrived in London on July 13, settling into comfortable rooms at Morin’s Hotel on Duke Street.

  For a nation that was engaged in wars on so many fronts—France, Spain, Russia, and the Caribbean—England appeared to be thriving. Although the English king was bound to his chair, gagged, suffering debilitating bouts of insanity, his doughty empire was on the rise. In population alone, the tiny island nation was double the size of the United States, twelve times the size of Venezuela. In manufacturing and industry, it led the world. That sense of busy abundance was apparent in London, which deeply impressed the South Americans with its new breed of bankers. Its exploding commerce. Its hubbub and modernity.

  Bolívar immediately set about arranging a meeting with Richard Colley, the Marquis of Wellesley, Britain’s foreign minister. Indeed, Lord Wellesley had expressed considerable eagerness to meet with the Venezuelan delegation. Although he portrayed himself as a neutral party, he had every intention of using their visit in a calculated scheme to force the Spanish Regency to accept Britain’s commercial demands. For decades, England had been trying to force its way into Spanish America, keenly aware of the bonanza of raw materials that it represented. But Spain held a punishing monopoly on trade in its colonies, frustrating British ambitions. In 1806 and 1807—during the prolonged war between the powers—the British had invaded Buenos Aires twice, and twice they had been repulsed. Unable to make military headway on the mainland, England set its sights on controlling trade on the high seas, particularly now that Spain was defenseless. But here, too, Napoleon turned history inside out. Britain and Spain, fierce, intractable enemies for more than two centuries, were now fast allies against France. England wanted to preserve that bond, but it also wanted to take commercial advantage of Spain’s weakness. Lord Wellesley would need to tread carefully with the rebel diplomats from Venezuela.

  The first meeting took place on July 16, not in the Foreign Office, since the Caracans were not agents of a recognized country, but in Wellesley’s home, the magnificent Apsley House, on the edge of Hyde Park. At the appointed hour, Bolívar, López Méndez, and Bello were led through the house’s immense and resplendent lobby, up the stairs, past the filigreed walls and elaborate marble mantelpieces, into the brightly lit drawing room where Wellesley and his staff awaited. The windows were open; the warm summer air wafted in from the garden. After polite introductions, during which French was established as the common tongue, the foreign minister launched in without delay. His French was superb—his wife was Parisian—and, having been ambassador to Spain, he had a rudime
ntary command of Spanish. Opting for bluntness, he declared straightaway that the action the Venezuelans had taken against the madre patria was unwise: Spain’s cause was not lost. Quite the contrary. With Britain’s help, Spain stood a very good chance of expelling Napoleon. He wanted to know from the outset, he said, whether the Caracas junta had sent the delegation to report abuses in the colony or whether it sought total separation from Spain. It was an arch beginning, meant to signal England’s allegiances and bring his visitors to the point.

  Bolívar took the lead, speaking fluently and eloquently in French. He gave Wellesley a spirited account of the events that had led to the revolution—and he called it just that, a revolution—describing the Creoles’ frustrations, the befuddled captain-generals, the activists’ clandestine meetings, the suppression of trade, the colonial abuses, and the final confrontation when Venezuelans refused to bow to an illegal government. The Spanish Regency, such as it was, represented an arbitrary arrangement, Bolívar explained, and Venezuelans were “eager to shake off, by whatever means possible, its intolerable yoke.”

  There was no question that he was making a passionate case for total liberty, although his directives from Caracas had forbidden it: he had been instructed to profess loyalty to Ferdinand VII, refuse any agreement that recognized the Spanish Regency, and make absolutely no mention of independence. Lord Wellesley listened to Bolívar with cold officiousness, his hawkish face revealing little sympathy for the appeal, and then he responded crisply that, as England was Spain’s ally, he could neither sanction nor sponsor its colony’s bid for independence. The conversation appeared to be at an end.

  But Bolívar went on, ever more fervent in his argument. There, in the presence of one of the most powerful men in Europe, the young man employed, perhaps for the first time, the clear and resonant voice, the gift for the bold image, the extraordinary powers of persuasion that soon would become his hallmark. Black eyes flashing, forehead dug with intensity, he rushed to communicate all the dreams and hopes of a budding nation. In a burst of enthusiasm, he handed his credentials to the marquis, sure that from them Wellesley would be able to glean something of the conviction that had animated his people. Bolívar had forgotten that those papers contained his instructions, which had been laid out very carefully by the Junta in Caracas. He went on to argue that Venezuela deserved the freedom to govern itself, that there was no doubt it could do so more capably than Spain’s war-torn offices or an imprisoned king. Lord Wellesley and his aides looked over the documents as Bolívar spoke, waiting to hear him out. When he was done, the minister looked up and commented drily that the ideas Bolívar had just expressed were in direct contradiction to the documents he had just been handed. Wasn’t his government called “the Supreme Junta of Caracas, Dedicated to Preserving the Rights of King Ferdinand VII”? And didn’t it say here, for everyone to see, that the delegation had been instructed not to bring up the subject of independence?

  Bolívar was speechless. Untrained in diplomacy and its formalities, he had not inspected the documents before bringing them to the meeting. The careful preparation was in his head, where he had framed a strong argument for absolute independence. The delegates quickly took another tack. Venezuelans would rather die than be governed by an upstart, illegal government, they told Lord Wellesley. What they wanted now was Britain’s cooperation in trade—an alliance that could only benefit England. Bolívar added that it was only natural for Venezuela to do this in a time of war.

  For all the rigidity of his manner, Lord Wellesley understood something about the Latin temperament—perhaps because of his Irish roots, perhaps because of his tempestuous French wife, perhaps because of his diplomatic service in Seville. In any case, he was hardly as implacable as he seemed. It was well known in London that he was an incorrigible voluptuary with scandalous personal habits. He was perfectly capable of understanding passions. Wellesley found Bolívar’s ardor appealing and said so, complimenting him on the zeal with which he defended his people. Bolívar shot back good-naturedly that the foreign minister had defended Spain’s interests with even greater zeal. The Irishman laughed. He thanked the delegates and added that he wished them well. He escorted them out genially and invited them back to a second meeting a few days later, on July 19.

  The next meeting did not accomplish much more. The foreign minister was friendly, but his gaze was firmly on the war with Napoleon and the Spanish collaboration necessary to win it. Even so, the Latin Americans took heart. They had been admitted to the highest diplomatic court in the world. They had aired their views on the aspirations of a people. As the Earl of Harrowby commented portentously, “The events in Caracas are the beginning of a great drama. The curtain has been raised sooner than we thought.” The Venezuelans came away with little doubt that, despite England’s immediate commitment to Spain, their long-term ambitions had been understood: the Creoles were serious about freedom.

  There was another ally to be won in London—Francisco de Miranda—and, although the delegates had been instructed to avoid him, Bolívar departed once more from the script. He sought out the fabled revolutionary, whose rhetoric against the Spanish king had grown only stronger now that Spain was under Napoleon’s boot. The old veteran was sixty—a grizzled version of the dashing adventurer he once had been—but he welcomed his compatriots with all the enthusiasm of a young man. “Despite his age,” Andrés Bello commented, “he seemed at the peak of his youth and ideals, still working to promote the independence of Spanish America.” Miranda invited them to his house at 27 Grafton Street, which for many years had served as a gathering place for Latin Americans in London. According to López Méndez, it was Miranda who eagerly undertook to make them at home in that bewildering city:

  The only person with whom we consulted with any confidence—and who gave us the preparatory briefings we needed—was our countryman; he more than anyone else, with his extensive experience and travels, his long contacts with the local government, and well-known exertions on behalf of America, was in a position to give us broad and reliable advice.

  It is very possible that Miranda even briefed Bolívar on how to renew talks with the British foreign minister. Miranda knew a great deal about Lord Wellesley, having been a close friend of his more famous brother, the Duke of Wellington. In fact, Miranda had been on the Foreign Ministry’s payroll—receiving a modest pension—for quite some time. Just two years earlier, before Napoleon changed the world order by invading Spain, the Foreign Office had been on the verge of assisting Miranda in a new liberating expedition. Wellington eventually was instructed to take Miranda for a walk on London’s streets and give him the bad news that England was coming to Spain’s aid, not Venezuela’s. If anyone could prepare Bolívar for British fickleness and cunning, it was Miranda.

  Bolívar and his colleagues spent much of their time in the old general’s comfortable house, availing themselves of his remarkable library, which contained six thousand volumes, many of them annotated in his own hand. Miranda also took pleasure in introducing the travelers to his distinguished circle, inviting them on visits to the Duke of Gloucester; the Duke of Cumberland; the chancellor of the exchequer, Nicholas Vansittart; the abolitionist William Wilberforce; the educator John Lancaster; and John Turnbull, his personal financier. But the English sought out the Venezuelans on their own, eager to learn about the recent events in Caracas: Lord Wellesley’s son Richard was a frequent visitor to Morin’s Hotel, as were other members of London society. For them, and indeed for anyone who would listen, Bolívar painted a splendid picture of Spanish American independence, of how a desire for liberty had galvanized the continent, and of the investment opportunities in store for any who would aid the cause.

  There is little doubt that he spoke of such things in gatherings of the Great American Reunion, a Masonic lodge that Miranda had founded in London for radical Spanish Americans. In general, the Masonic movement of secret societies had proved to be a singularly powerful force for revolution throughout the Atlantic world
, and the society of Freemasons in Miranda’s day was enormous, counting such eminences as George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, James Monroe, the Marquis de Lafayette, William Pitt, the Duke of Wellington, Alexander Pushkin, and Sir Walter Scott. At meetings of Miranda’s Great American Reunion—held routinely at his Grafton Street house—Miranda became a mentor to many a starry-eyed young rebel. Eventually, the three preeminent figures of the Spanish American wars for independence—the Argentine liberator José de San Martín, the Chilean hero Bernardo O’Higgins, and Bolívar—sat in Miranda’s library, met with his friends, and thought through their strategies for insurrection.

  Miranda’s lodge, like all Masonic lodges, was considered anathema by the Spanish crown and Catholic Church, which looked on revolutionary cells with alarm, and so it was spied on routinely by royalist agents. In 1811, one of those agents intercepted a letter from an Argentine “brother” to a New Granadan, revealing the names of all men who had been officially inducted into Miranda’s secret society. Andrés Bello was among them, as was Luis López Méndez—Bolívar’s companions on that fateful trip. Even the outspoken Caracas deacon José Cortés de Madariaga was listed as having taken the vows at Grafton Street. Curiously, Bolívar is not on the list. Given his later criticisms—even prohibition—of secret societies, it is likely that he found the concept of secret brotherhoods pointless in a people’s revolution. Not for him the undeclared war.