But before the conspirators could put their plans into military action, the leaders were arrested during a meeting where they were carefully evaluating their rebel forces and when they could begin the revolt. Lucas Dantas, João de Deus, as well as Manuel Faustino and Luís Gonzaga das Virgens – all poor mulattoes – paid a very high price for the audacity of claiming the right to political visibility. The four were denounced by the crown authorities as the leaders of the rebellion and were hanged in Salvador on the morning of 8 November 1799. A fifth member, a goldsmith called Luís Pires, was also condemned to death, but managed to flee and was never found. The bodies of the four were drawn and quartered and displayed in public places around the city. The hands of Luís Gonzaga, who was accused of writing the pamphlets, were nailed to the gallows. It was an example of the enormous imbalance of power between the Crown and the colonists, of what happened to any citizen who dared to violate the law, and of the instruments of repression that the the Crown had at its command.88
As had been the case in Minas Gerais, the punishments inflicted by the Crown on the Bahia conspirators were based on a political calculation. In Bahia the weight of the Crown’s wrath fell on anonymous, simple men – poor and mulatto – who had dared to adopt a ‘public voice’. The Bahia Conspiracy was something radically new: it proposed the inclusion of distinct groups of people, of differing social and economic statuses and with diverging interests. Despite their achievements, the leaders of the conspiracy have been unjustly overlooked by Brazilian historians. Outside restricted academic and cultural circles in Salvador, they are virtually unknown.
The Crown’s response crushed the Bahia Conspiracy. It did not, however, root out the seed from which a succession of future rebellions was to grow, setting in motion a process that would teach Brazilians a multitude of political lessons. To this day Brazil clings to the idea of a stunning tropical paradise, where the Portuguese colonizers lived in peace and harmony. But history tells a different story. Between the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the settlers began to see life in the colony in another light: they claimed the right to engage in previously unthinkable debate and political negotiations, gradually preparing the way for a richer form of communication between the people and the governing powers. Not one of the conspiracies was successful. But they bequeathed a legacy to the nineteenth century: a set of political and intellectual tools that could be mobilized, adapted and applied to bring about change. It is true that revolts do not last forever. But they reveal the vulnerability of power and cast an eye towards the future.
6
Ship Ahoy! A Court at Sea1
Each era dreams of the next.
Jules Michelet
By the end of the eighteenth century, words like ‘revolution’, ‘uprising’, ‘rebellion’ and ‘sedition’ had established their place in everyday vocabulary. This was an era of change and upheaval; the invention of the train in 1804 is perhaps the best metaphor for this. In the paintings of J. M. W. Turner and Claude Monet locomotives emerge dramatically from the morning mists, like dark phantoms, in an allusion to the all-pervading confidence in what the future would bring. There was the belief that society had broken free from the stagnation of the past, had severed the shackles of backwardness. An example of this overriding self-confidence is an inscription on the back of a locomotive built in 1808 with the proud challenge: ‘Catch me if you can!’ This was the mentality prevailing in the countries that held sway over world affairs: nothing could stop the new inventions and structural transformations of the era.
Events were moving so fast it was indeed a challenge to keep up with them. In 1776 the thirteen British American colonies had won their independence from Great Britain during a revolutionary process which, for the first time, incorporated a list of citizens’ rights, made republican values integral to political modernity, and proved that the status of the colony was not permanent. Straight after, around 1780, a broad industrial revolution erupted in England, involving large economic investments, new technologies and the unrestrained use of labour. To complete the scenario, in 1789, a new event of significant consequence was to occur: in France, the Revolution disrupted that which had seemingly been the natural order of the Universe. In 1793, Louis XVI, stripped of his divine right by an increasingly radical regime, was sentenced to the guillotine. His death was a presage of many others, symbolic or not. The Revolution tore down a centuries-old system in which the monarch was an icon at the centre, where he had absolute rule over the state. Not to forget the Haitian Revolution (1791–1804), which turned the island of Santo Domingo upside down: slavery was abolished, and the first republic – outside of the African continent – by and for people of African descent came into being. Moreover, the event showed the world that societies founded on slavery were simply a perverse historical quirk and therefore changeable. The institution of slavery was not a product of nature nor was it the result of ‘divine intervention’.
‘Revolution’ is a word typical of modern vocabulary: it describes an event that can take place in various facets and spaces of social life – customs, law, religion, politics, economy, states and even continents – and which implies transformation in earnest. The word designates the overthrow of what is seen as outdated, the condensation of time and the inauguration of a future – which is to be not only better, but heretofore unknown. In the case of the French Revolution, far from being localized and contextualized, it polarized international politics and the modern states of continental and Atlantic Europe: the logic of the socially stratified society – marked by rigid hierarchical structures based on birth – and the Old Regime which began to collapse.
The various European monarchies felt the coup in distinct ways, but no one was immune to it. The ruptures were so extreme they would eventually alter notions of time and space: the world would seem smaller as the nineteenth century progressed – the greater speed of travel by sea or by land had made it more accessible – and time seemed shorter now that news could travel from one country to another within a single day. The push towards modernity was happening, beginning in the late eighteenth century, driven by a rupture with the feudal past and a hunger for goods, products and wealth. In its anxiety to overthrow the past, new productive forces emerged that relied on a workforce that was supposedly free, but in reality was based on new forms of labour characterized by increasing alienation and exploitation. After the first wave of revolutions the western world was virtually unrecognizable. The speed of the Industrial Revolution permanently altered the landscape, transforming hierarchies and the relationship between the countryside and the cities. By the end of the nineteenth century the landscape would look like the aftermath of a scorched-earth policy. The world had definitely changed: daily routine had been turned on its head.
In the small and once opulent Portuguese court of the late eighteenth century, the atmosphere was one of unease. The situation resembled a chessboard with Britain and France as the knights and castles and Spain and Portugal as the pawns. While Britain and France vied for the position of the most powerful nation in Europe, Spain was struggling to keep what remained of its autonomy, and the once vast and powerful Portuguese Empire could no longer hide its vulnerability. The country was largely dependent on its American colony, much of whose wealth was squandered on inefficient administration and the construction of ostentatious monuments, notably churches. Faced by these disadvantages, Portugal did what it could to maintain its image of neutrality, adopting contradictory positions that aimed at pleasing everyone but in fact pleased no one. Dona Maria I, the Queen of Portugal, and later her son, Prince Regent João,2 adopted a dubious diplomatic policy that oscillated between supporting France or Britain, based on the fear that favouring one would imply being seen as a foe by the other.3
These were uncertain times in which Portugal stood to lose everything: its colonial empire, its monarch and its traditional alliance with Britain. The healthy trade balance it had once enjoyed was now a thing of the past. These events led to
closer cooperation between the two colonial powers of the Iberian Peninsula to resolve the problem of frontiers in their South America territories. In October 1777 they signed the Treaty of San Ildefonso in which Portugal, in return for territory in South America, ceded the Colônia do Sacramento to Spain and relinquished its control of the Islands of Fernando Pó and Ano Bom,4 fundamental to the Spanish slave trade.5 Next a double marriage was promoted to strengthen the ties between the two: the Infante João of Portugal was married off to the Spanish Infanta Carlota Joaquina, and the Spanish Infante Gabriel to the Infanta of Portugal, Mariana Vitória.
But the apparent calm was short-lived. The French Revolution put Portugal’s alliance with Spain at risk and forced Portugal to take a firmer stand in its alliance with Britain. Portugal also needed to navigate its relationships with France and England, who were on opposite sides of the North American independence movement. Faced with this tense situation, Portugal tried to sustain its complicated policy of neutrality. The country had some experience, given that for many years, in moments of conflict, Portugal had managed to temper international relations with balanced doses of agreement and discretion. Above all, the Crown wanted to preserve its autonomy and guarantee its overseas territories.
The Revolution in France, however, would take unexpected paths: in January 1793, Louis XVI was executed. In Portugal the reaction was immediate: fifteen days of private mourning followed by a further fifteen days of public mourning,6 during which the theatres were closed in tribute to the monarch who had been a friend and relation of the royal family.7 Wild rumours spread terror among the inhabitants of Lisbon, especially among the elite. The superintendent of police in the capital, Pina Manique, was adamant in his defence of the rights of the monarchy: French ships were seized and republican soldiers forbidden from coming ashore; republican books were banned, intellectuals arrested, and all French residents expelled.8 Only French citizens who supported Louis XVI and remained in the city as spies for the Portuguese Crown, seeking to obtain information from France,9 were allowed to stay. Mistrust was everywhere, as a witness described:
There are spies everywhere. They proliferate in every part of the city: in the squares, in the streets, in the cafes, in the theatres, at the Royal Exchange, at the National Assembly, in judges’ chambers, in merchants’ offices and even inside people’s homes.10
Neutrality on the Iberian Peninsula was now little more than a fairy tale. The British government signed treaties with Portugal that contained specific clauses granting protection, and then did the same with Spain. Neither country was aware of the pacts the other had entered into. Cooperation between the two Crowns was swiftly being converted into confrontation.
It is worth taking a closer look at Lisbon and the reign of Dona Maria. Her firstborn and heir to the throne – Dom José, Príncipe do Brazil – died in 1788, at twenty-seven, without satisfying his royal duties. At the time, the queen showed the first signs of dementia and losing control of her government. If Dona Maria could no longer govern, her second son, Prince João, now the presumed heir, would only begin to rule from 1799. Weak, and without significant power to make decisions, the young prince was supported by his State Council when he took power as Regent. Meanwhile the political situation went from bad to worse: the Crown feared not only the imminent invasion of the peninsula, but also the loss of Brazil, which could be occupied by either of the litigant powers, France or England.
The pressure came from both sides. In Lisbon, the ‘English Party’ and the ‘French Party’ vied for Prince João’s attention. There was no ideological difference between the two; both were made up of aristocrats who were loyal to the monarchy and eager to avoid a war. The only difference between them was the solution they envisaged. The French Party was represented by a diplomat, an intellectual named Antônio de Araújo de Azevedo, Count of Barca, who dominated the political scene between 1804 and 1807. His position was somewhat paradoxical: he supported closer ties with France because he feared and rejected the Revolution, but he believed in the benefits of its culture and civilization. The English Party was also led by a diplomat, the president of the Royal Treasury, Rodrigo de Sousa Coutinho. His priority was to defend the Atlantic for Portuguese ships and thus safeguard the country and its empire. To achieve this he advocated maintaining the traditional alliance with Britain. In both his personal and political convictions, Coutinho was a rationalist. He had great confidence in the achievements of Britain’s Industrial Revolution and believed the alliance would further the progress of the empire.
The Prince Regent oscillated between the two like the pendulum of a clock. But he was under no illusion: Portugal’s frontiers needed defending against both the old enemy and the new (Spain and France). As soon as he became Regent, Dom João turned his attention to defence, reinforcing the border with Spain. The chaplain of the Swedish Legacy was shocked by what he saw: ‘Violent press gangs can be seen on the streets every day. I frequently see as many as twenty recruits pass by, tied together by ropes.’11 The situation was exacerbated by the shortage of funds to meet these new expenses: this time the onus fell on the clergy, who were required to pay a 10 per cent tax on the value of their property.12 And there was no lack of initiatives for raising an extra shilling or two, as a contemporary commentator discovered when he learned that the royal carriages were being hired out for the transport of corpses to the cemeteries.13
For a short time the new defences seemed to work. But in 1801 the roving eye of Napoleon, whose expansion policies were becoming increasingly aggressive, once again focused on Portugal. He now demanded the fulfilment of previous demands the Portuguese government had failed to meet – it had always been conveniently forgetful in this regard. Napoleon moved once again to block the English from landing on the continent and instructed his Spanish ally, Charles IV, to transmit his orders to Portugal. He made it clear that the possibility of an invasion was not a mere threat. Dom João tried to buy time. He mobilized his diplomatic corps and there followed a flurry of appeals to Paris, Madrid and London, none of which had any effect. Charles IV’s minister, Manuel de Godoy, led an army from Galicia to Andalusia to confront the Portuguese troops at Trás-os-Montes in the Douro and in the Algarve. The Spanish dislodged their adversaries in one fell swoop.
The surrender was signed in Badajoz. Losing Olivença14 was the least of Portugal’s worries. What hurt the most was having to pay an indemnity of 20 million francs to the French, and being forced to comply with the terms of the treaty that demanded the closure of its ports to the British. However, due to its continued policy of dissimulation and the period of comparative calm that ensued, Portugal was able to stall yet again. It was a strategy of wait-and-see. Meanwhile, the ambassadors from Paris, General Lannes and General Junot, were ceremoniously received in Lisbon. They had come to strengthen the ties between the two nations with the aid of Antônio de Araújo de Azevedo, who was exerting increasing control over the government. Little is known about Junot’s activities as ambassador. We do know, however, that Madame Lannes, with her uninhibited sense of fashion, made a great impression on the conservative inhabitants of Lisbon. French songs became popular and ‘during the week before St Anthony’s day the Marseillaise was played every evening in honour of the Saint’.15 Peace was finally declared when France and Britain signed the Treaty of Amiens in 1802, in which the French conquests were recognized by the British. The treaty was followed by a brief period of truce.
But there was still little peace for Portugal. This time the problem came from inside the palace itself. In 1805 a conspiracy was hatched by Dom João’s wife, Carlota Joaquina, who had previously embarrassed the Crown on numerous occasions by her support for policies that defended the interests of Spain. As a woman she was ahead of her time: she rode horses, knew how to fire a cannon and had extramarital affairs, which was most likely one of the greatest obstacles to her bland husband’s peace of mind. She now prepared to depose him, alleging mental incapacity, and to replace him as Regent. Although the Prin
ce Regent reacted quickly, banishing those involved, the incident highlighted the Crown’s insecurity and the presence of an agent of Spain at the very heart of the royal family.16
Meanwhile Napoleon – Emperor of France since 1804 – yearning to reshape the map of Europe, was concerned with removing the only thorn that remained in his side: the British. In 1806 he decreed a continental blockade, forbidding all European nations from trading with Britain. The British reaction was proportional to the provocation: it declared all commerce and navigation from enemy ports to be illegal and claimed the legitimate right to seize any ship proceeding from these ports.17 The following year, after being defeated in battle, both Russia and Prussia signed peace agreements with Napoleon. With these threats hanging over Portugal’s head, the government began to draw up a provisional plan for transferring the Crown to the colonies.
The foundation of a grandiose empire in Brazil was by no means a new idea – it had been considered every time the royal family felt its sovereignty was under threat. As early as 1580, when Spain invaded Portugal during the War of Restoration, one of the claimants to the throne, the Prior of Crato, was advised to leave for Brazil.18 Padre Vieira had also suggested Brazil as a refuge for Dom João IV– ‘where a place for a palace would be found where he could reside in comfort during the four seasons of the year, and where he could found the fifth empire …’19 In 1738, during the reign of Dom João V,20 Luís da Cunha21 offered the same advice. Luís da Cunha thought the transference of the royal family to Brazil would create a more balanced relationship between Portugal and its colony.22 In 1762, fearing a Franco-Spanish invasion, the Marquis of Pombal was reported to have advised Dom José I:
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