by Robert Booth
Rumors flew in the first months of 1813 from the sea and from over the mountains. Viceroy Abascal had reached the end of his patience, it was said. Naval vessels had gathered at Callao, and troops were drilling at Lima. Fernando VII had been restored to the Spanish throne and was seeking vengeance against those in the empire who had betrayed the fatherland. Perhaps some of it was true.
Poinsett continued to hope that the revolution in Chile might make it the fulcrum for a continent-wide movement for independence. This possibility gave profound meaning to all his years of wandering, observing, posing, and studying in preparation for some unknown opportunity, some grand purpose. And for more than a year, he had retained the confidence of the patriots while carefully finessing the issue of American involvement. Support was coming, he assured them, but logistics were difficult. It was important to his standing, and his country’s, that he be seen as capable of getting his government to deliver.
He was both popular and credible, but an English merchant had matched Hoevel’s achievement by importing a shipment of weapons for sale to the rebels, leaving Poinsett unable to counter. The silence of Washington and the rumblings from London as the British Empire’s rulers slowly, tentatively, turned their attention to matters in Chile kept him awake nights. Still, he relied on the promises of President Madison, and he conducted himself as if it were only a matter of time before his government, now at war, took decisive and dramatic action. With the arrival of a decree of formal recognition for the new republic, or multiple shipments of arms, or a frigate-class American battleship, Chile would know who its true friend was.
Poinsett heard that two American whalers had been captured by a privateer and a British armed whaleship, and that the American sealing ship Hope, far to the south at San Carlos, had been taken and her men sent to prison in Callao. As consul general, part of his mission was to protect American seamen and American property. He protested to Viceroy Abascal but received no response. It was extremely frustrating: after more than a year of trying to bring about conditions for a Chilean war that would convulse the continent and change the course of history, Poinsett had to accept the silence of the enemy and of his own government.
And so, on the afternoon that he received word in Santiago that the U.S. frigate Essex had arrived in Valparaiso, Consul General Poinsett assumed that his many entreaties had been heard and acted upon. Captain David Porter must be the hero he had been awaiting—Madison’s emissary, the herald of his nation’s commitment to the brave patriots of Spanish America.
*That night, at the dance hosted by Poinsett, the three American printers got so drunk that Poinsett ordered that they be taken to their lodgings. On the way, they traded insults with the police, who opened fire and shot eight people, one of whom, printer William H. Burbidge, died four days later. The incident did not diminish Poinsett’s stature or the importance of the products of the press.
Chapter Six
A New America
In the harbor at Valparaiso on March 14, 1813, as Captain David Porter watched the barge of the seaport governor returning to the Essex with Lieutenant Downes on board, he prepared for the worst—a disaster at home, or a Spanish declaration of war on the United States.
In fact, the port captain joyfully called up to them, Valparaiso is free! Chile is independent! Vivan los Estados Unidos! The Chileans, he said, “had shaken off their allegiance” to Spain and now had an army, a constitution, and a new nation. America, he assured them, was their model. They “looked up to the United States of America for example and protection,” and they welcomed Porter as a liberator.
Amused, Porter gave independent Chile a twenty-one-gun salute that was “punctually returned” by the fort. He went ashore and met with a surprised Governor Francisco de la Lastra. Lastra said that recently he had heard from Buenos Aires that the Essex was in the Atlantic, cruising with a squadron off Brazil, and that Porter’s commander, William Bainbridge of the Constitution, had won a brilliant victory, as had James Lawrence and the Hornet. Porter was thrilled and jealous at this news and eager to hear more. Through an interpreter he spoke at length with the congenial Lastra, who had been an officer in the Spanish Royal Navy and had fought Napoleon’s forces in Spain. Porter explained that this was his second cruise; on the first, in the Atlantic, he had captured several of the enemy’s merchant vessels and had been the first to defeat a vessel of the Royal Navy, an inferior ship that he had sent in to New York. His triumph, he noted ruefully, had soon been eclipsed by the resounding victory of Captain Isaac Hull and the Constitution. Still, said Lastra, to El Capitan Porter belonged a great honor.
Lastra confessed that he had reservations about recent events in his homeland. He worried about “staunch republicans, men filled with revolutionary principles, and apparently desirous of establishing a government founded on liberty.” Chile did not seem ready for liberty: it was suddenly a republic, although it had no experience of self-government; its slogan was democracy, but most of the people were ignorant and illiterate. There was a sense of unreality to it all, a feeling of improvisation and impermanence. Nonetheless, Lastra conceded, the revolution was probably necessary to introduce a better system of government. Spain was fading as an imperial power, and its colonies had an opportunity to be free. Lastra and other ruling-class Creoles felt that they could run Chile better than their Spanish overlords, but they did not believe in democracy or in republican government. In Lastra’s opinion, the rebellion was moving too fast and making too many changes.
Chile had always been an autocracy, with the richest and best-educated running things. For centuries, the poor had been kept in their place, living out their lives in a state of ignorance and complacency that would help them to accept their lowly but useful roles in society. Some of this, said Lastra, was as it should be—there was a natural order involved. The idealists in the independence movement did not appreciate how deeply rooted were the old ways in this kingdom and how bitterly opposed to innovation were those who held privileged positions. Conservative royalists were numerous, and many of the wisest and most powerful moderates favored only limited reforms. They remained respectful of Viceroy Abascal, enthroned at Lima, technically the ruler of Chile in the name of Fernando VII; they did not want to suffer the devastation of war, and they did not want their sons fighting for a makeshift, radical government. They were grateful to Abascal for his forbearance in not sending troops into Chile.
Lastra thought he could see things clearly. Certainly he had a good vantage point, for his sister-in-law’s brothers were the three Carreras, who first had taken over the army and then the congress. Now José Miguel Carrera was the leader of the new republic, and it was he who had made Lastra the chief of the Chilean navy, which, as Porter could see, had no ships.
Governor Lastra, obviously fascinated by the Essex, came on board with his retinue and seemed to Porter to be “much pleased and astonished that Anglo-Americans, as they styled us, could build, equip, and manage ships of so large a size.” The governor ended his visit by inviting Porter and his officers to a party to be held in their honor.
Valparaiso Bay, Chile, looking south from the battery at Castello el Baron. At center is the harbor anchorage; to the right is the Point of Angels.
Valparaiso Harbor in the early nineteenth century. Toward the end of the British-French world war (1793–1815), several of Spain’s South American colonies asserted their independence. Chileans, whose main port was Valparaiso, had long carried on a smuggling trade with visiting American whalers and merchant vessels. Revolutionaries opened the port to free trade in 1810.
At dawn the next day, Porter received an envelope from Santiago, the capital, fifty-seven miles away. He read the letter with concern; there was an American consul in Chile, one Joel Roberts Poinsett, who congratulated him on his timely arrival. War matters had reached a serious pass, Poinsett wrote, and U.S. intervention would make all the difference in Chile. Poinsett reported that news of the arrival of the Essex had set off joyous demonstrations in
Santiago. Crowds had gathered in jubilation, “bells had been rung the whole day, and illuminations had taken place” all night. Horses and carriages were being sent to Valparaiso to carry Porter and his officers to the outskirts of the capital, to be met by President Carrera and his own cavalry unit, which would escort the captain in a triumphal parade through the city.
This was bad news for Porter, who, for the first time, understood that the war he carried with him might not be his own. He wrote with annoyance in his journal that Poinsett “believed that I had brought from my country nothing less than proposals for a friendly alliance with Chile and assurances of assistance in their struggle for independence.” This Consul Poinsett seemed to think that the situation in Chile was highly important to the future of the United States in the Pacific. However that might be, Porter was quite sure that an official of the Department of State had no authority over a navy captain. He sent a message to Poinsett regretting that he and his officers would not be going to the capital or marching in any parades.
On the following day, as the men of the Essex loaded provisions and Porter played tourist, Consul Poinsett arrived from Santiago. He was dashing, handsome, and full of enthusiasm for Chilean independence. He remonstrated with Porter, hoping that there had been some mistake. In fact, there were many, and they all added up to a refusal. Porter had not been sent to Chile to support the revolution; he had known nothing about it when he had sailed from the Delaware River in October. Porter was on a mission to hunt down British whaleships in the Pacific and could not lose a day—if the Spanish sent word out to sea, the whalers might escape or seek protection in ports. The Essex had no orders to stay in Chile or to become involved in the wars of other nations. It was just a coincidence that Porter had come to Valparaiso to get supplies—he had meant to put into the Bay of Concepcion. Obviously, he could not allow the Chileans to lionize him under false pretenses.
Poinsett was shaken, dismayed, incredulous. His entire mission was being placed in jeopardy thanks to this American captain, his own countryman. Naturally, everyone in Santiago had given Poinsett credit for the arrival of the much-hoped-for battleship symbolizing America’s commitment to their revolutionary state and its war of independence. The Essex had such strength and such firepower, at thirty-two guns, that she could dominate the Pacific coastline. Amid the cheering and fireworks in Santiago, Poinsett had done nothing to curb their jubilation at this example of the magnificent generosity of the United States. In fact, he had long expected Madison to live up to their private agreement to provide assistance to the patriots and to recognize the existence of their new republic.
Within twenty-four hours of the coming of the Essex, Poinsett went from elation to despair, and much of Chile with him. No doubt he pressed Porter hard to undo the damage, to no avail. Poinsett regarded Porter’s refusal to stay on as a great error. War was imminent between rebel Chile and royalist Peru, and Abascal was behaving like an enemy, preying on American vessels, capturing three of them and imprisoning their crews, and ignoring Poinsett’s demands. The Essex was uniquely able to prevent further depredations and, in case of war, to cut off a naval attack from Lima and limit the transport of troops by sea. But Porter insisted that his mission was to damage the enemy by capturing English whalers. Not to protect American whalers and trading vessels? Well, yes, that too.*
Consul General Poinsett was committed to the fight for Chilean independence. He was already advising President Carrera and planned to join him on the battlefield if necessary. Porter, however, could not be drawn in; he was not game for Poinsett’s war or wars along the shores of Spanish America, and he wondered at the man’s devotion to the cause, which made him seem more like a Roman consul, intent on a triumph against enemy armies, than a modern consular bureaucrat. It was not, however, the place of David Porter to question the deportment of a duly authorized consul general. If Poinsett was a partisan, perhaps that was what Washington wanted.
After a few days, Porter was willing to concede Poinsett’s acumen, for it was apparent that “the whole power and force of the kingdom of Chile” was in the hands of Poinsett’s friends the Carrera brothers. President José Miguel Carrera led the cavalry of this “kingdom,” while the infantry was commanded by Juan José Carrera, the giant, and the artillery by Luis Carrera, the gentleman. Consul Poinsett had a high opinion of General Carrera and a firm belief in the importance of Chile’s revolution. But Porter supposed that the Carreras were no more devoted to the ideals of a republic than to their own self-interest, nor were any of their rivals and subordinates, who waited for the Carreras to weaken and be devoured by their own monster.
Busy loading his provisions and resisting Poinsett and his suggestions, Porter took a summary view of the situation and missed, or avoided, the complexities. In his view the “patriots” were Creoles, “young dashing native Chileans,” opposed by “invariably crusty, old, formal Castilians” sent out from Madrid to manage the colonies. Although the rebels were in charge, a large group of royalists called “Saracens” was said to be “a strong and secret party” out to assassinate certain Creoles.
Porter’s arrival had been a coincidence, nothing more, although the Chileans still wanted him to be their hero. He resented their assumptions without bothering to refute them. In a few days he would be over the horizon, hunting for British whalers, far from these importunate strangers at whom he smiled and nodded, cynically encouraging “a belief that suited my views and accorded with their wishes.” In truth, he was more interested in their women than in their revolution.
No one in Valparaiso—certainly not Poinsett—knew what had really brought David Porter to the Pacific and how much he had risked by rounding the Horn. For months it had been the little captain’s own secret, one that tore at him, a compulsion and an irresistible temptation that overwhelmed his better judgment.
Governor Lastra, overseer of the seaport and its forts, hosted a farewell ball in honor of El Capitan Porter and the officers of the Essex. Porter, eager for female company after months at sea, was surprised and pleased to encounter “a much larger and more brilliant assemblage of ladies than we could have expected.” The night’s dancing began with elegant minuets, followed by folk dances and then an American cotillion, which “the ladies,” all made up with rouge and powder, “had the complaisance and patience to attempt.”
Porter and his happy officers “could almost fancy we had gotten amongst our own fair country-women” until the next dance began—“and in one moment the illusion vanished.” To the music of the balas de tierra, a sort of polka, the pale, graceful ladies suddenly began making “the most indelicate and lascivious motions, gradually increasing in energy and violence”—most keenly observed—“until the fair one, apparently overcome with passion,” was “compelled to retire to her seat.” There a transformation occurred: “her rosy cheeks and fair complexion disappeared in the large drops of sweat which ran trickling down her neck and breast,” revealing “the sallow tinge which nature had bountifully bestowed.”
Despite his private crudity and reflexive American racism, Porter was not so uncouth as to express his thoughts except to the future readers of the journal he was writing. But he loathed some of the behaviors of his hosts and decided that “the customs of the inhabitants of Valparaiso differ so materially from our own (and perhaps from those of every other people) that I cannot help noticing a few particulars.” His hosts had not explained to him how extensive were their multicourse meals, nor how to eat certain dishes. They had not mentioned that elegant ladies might prance around like pagans but would never show the slightest sign of public affection. These were the matters that “struck [Porter] as the most singular” about a society in the midst of revolution and a courageous people who, on the verge of fighting for their freedom, had graciously paused to pay tribute to a man who had bitterly disappointed them, their xenophobic guest of honor, a pure product of the closed society of the U.S. Navy and a betrayer of the cause.
At Valparaiso after the ball,
Porter turned down many other invitations while the vessel loading proceeded. On Saturday he was interrupted by the arrival from Santiago of Don Luis Carrera, one of the military leaders of the rebellion, along with a new English commercial consul and two Americans.* On Sunday, Porter rested from his labors and invited ladies and gentlemen to spend the afternoon on board ship prior to attending an evening ball. After a pleasant visit in which “we had all laid aside our national and religious prejudices,” Porter and his guests had just gone ashore when a cry went up, followed by a shot of warning from the outermost fort. A large vessel was making her way in—a warship, without doubt. The Essex was an easy target at anchor in the outer harbor, so Porter and his fellow officers, along with Poinsett and Carrera and his retinue, ran to the dock, jumped into the captain’s gig, and flew back to their ship. Porter ordered the anchor cables cut and got her under way to meet the advancing enemy. A British frigate or ship of the line would have a great advantage over the Essex, still in the harbor with little room to maneuver.
The frigate kept coming, and the Essex sallied forth to offer combat. On the yellow hillsides of Valparaiso, crowds gathered—men, women, and children—to view the battle to be fought by the gallant Anglo-Americans. On board, Luis Carrera, twenty-two, head of the rebel army’s artillery, was excited; he kept urging Porter to take the enemy by storm and allow him to lead a boarding party. The Essex was in fighting trim by the time she caught up to the stranger, which proved to be the Portuguese merchantman San José de la Fama arriving from Rio for a cargo of flour. When the two vessels passed in silence, the cheated crowds grumbled and returned to the city. On board the Essex the intrepid Don Luis, deprived of this chance at glory, soon experienced the humiliation of seasickness. “However warlike he might have felt on first coming aboard,” smirked Porter, “he was now as weak as an infant.”